


The Gas Station Attendant

by Professional_Creeper



Category: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), Urban Legend (1998)
Genre: Age Difference, Anxiety, Attempted Murder, Class Differences, College, Crossover, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, May/December Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Opposites Attract, Personal Growth, Romance, Secrets, Slow Burn, Smut, Speech Disorders, Stuttering, Suicidal Thoughts, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former cheerleader and sorority girl Michelle Mancini pulls into a gas station in the middle of nowhere, desperately low on fuel. The attendant is a creepy redneck who stutters, and stares too long with dubious intent. Yet neither are exactly who they seem to be. Secrets of the past come to light, and the two find themselves drawn together by the terror of a killer in the back seat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings  
>  **Graphic violence:** not particularly gory, but there is blood, injury, and homicide.  
>  **Explicit sexual content:** all consensual, will appear in later chapters.

Nothing but dial tone buzzed through the telephone receiver. I knew, before I ever lifted it to my ear with faltering hope, that there would be no credit card company on the line. I knew all along. The lock clicked into place behind me with a jangle of his keys, confirming everything I suspected. My pulse rang in my ears, like I was standing under a waterfall.

_He lied._

The phone fell from my hand, tumbling through an infinite void.  

Dizzying terror threatened to swallow me up in waves of darkness that lapped at the edges of my vision. These were my last moments alive, in a dingy garage, crammed full of too many workshop tables and shelves, which were cluttered with lamps, scattered papers, greasy rags, tools, and bottles of turpentine and automotive fluids. Today would be the day I died on the floor next to a grimy stack of tires because I let my fuel tank run low — because I stopped at this sleazy little gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Rain was pounding against the rooftop of my Ford Expedition as I followed the winding black ribbon of road through endless pine trees. The wipers were working double-time to part the thick curtain of water over the windshield. The moment I could see the road, all was obscured again in the deluge. Then the blade parted the waters again. Driving after dark unnerved me ever since my “accident” senior year of high school, but I was too lazy to leave my parents’ house early enough to reach campus before sundown. Earlier in the twilight, I had a horrifying reminder of why my father gave me such a tank of an SUV — I drifted out of my lane, and narrowly swerved to avoid a head-on collision. “Oh my god,” I gasped. _I could have killed somebody else_. Flashes of lightening above made me jump in my seat, and to fight back the tension that stung my chest, I sang — badly, and loud — over the sound of the storm.

I was still on edge when I pulled into this place, and its ramshackle appearance did nothing to calm my nerves. If my father’s fuel-guzzling SUV wasn’t running on empty, or if there were any sign of a nicer station on this desolate country route, I would never have stopped. There was only one decades-old pump that wasn’t even covered from the rain like any modern facility. Signs advertised auto repair services, but the rusted-out trucks disintegrating in the lot looked like they hadn’t moved in years. The place could have been abandoned, but for a few yellow lights glowing through the downpour.

Half-doubting anyone was around, I pulled up to the antiquated fuel pump and honked for service. It was late, or it felt late because of the way the storm-blackened sky hung close and low. I blared on the horn again impatiently — a face appeared inches from mine at the window. I stifled a scream. He was a bug-eyed scarecrow bedraggled by the rain, with scraggly greying hair framing a sallow, grease-smeared face. I was struggling to quiet my shallow bursts of breath when he spoke in a broken drawl.

“Rrr-run — run outta g-gas?”

I wasn’t sure whether to pity the inarticulate creature, or to turn and flee. A derelict place like this was the perfect stage set for scary, uneducated hicks, and everything from his mangled voice, to the denim jacket and flannel shirt he wore fit the part. _Why didn’t I stop in town?_

“Yup, fill it up please,” I replied in my best everything’s-fine mask, rolling the window down a sliver and passing him my credit card. Cold rain dripped down my fingertips, but it wasn’t my prime motivation for rolling up the window again so hastily.

He held the thin plastic card, and he _stared_. His eyes were sad, and blue, out of keeping with the rest of him. They were soft and deep, but they lingered far too long… lack of practice, perhaps, from being isolated with nothing but trees and a single winding road for miles. Those eyes hungered for another face to look at, and were not eager to turn back to the rain and the dark, and his old familiar run-down station. His tongue pushed between his closed lips, barely parting them before retreating back into his mouth.

It frightened me.

He was older, perhaps in his forties, with rain-frizzled hair that hung limp to his shoulders, and a tall forehead etched with rows of fine lines. He could have been a character out of The Hills Have Eyes. In perfect contrast, I was Snow White, with short hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, and young and ripe for whatever lurid thoughts were hiding behind those long-staring eyes. Goosebumps raised along my skin. We were alone here, miles from campus, where no one would notice if I went missing. Effortlessly, like changing a television channel, I returned to the top of my cheer squad. Escaped to my memories of a time before life changed me, I was warm and safe. In high school, I never doubted my superiority and invincibility. I wrapped myself in a bubble, and reminded myself I was better than he was: too pretty, too young, and too cultured to be touched by some redneck. He wouldn’t dare.

“Freak show,” I muttered derisively when he finally turned to do his job and fill my gas tank.

No sooner did the meter begin to tick up did he return to staring through my windows. My fingers tapped the steering wheel as I pretended not to notice him scoping the back. _Don’t wonder if he’s lonely. Don’t wonder if he’s desperate enough to hurt you. Nothing’s going to happen; you’re being paranoid. He’s just a freak. You’ll get your gas, and go, and you’ll forget this lousy night._

He ran inside with my card briefly, then returned to the window. “M-m-m-miss. Could you c—come inside for a mmm-m-mminute please?”

“What is it?” A pit formed in my stomach. _Don’t be paranoid._

His face scrunched up with the effort of speaking. Each consonant seemed the stubborn last drop of ketchup in a bottle — he had to strike at it a few times before it would come out. “C-credit card… c-company’s on the… phone.”

“Is there a problem?”

“They wanna… sp-speak with you!” He held up my card and walked away without giving it back, so I would have to follow.

“Shit.” I should have driven away and forgotten the stupid card. Every tensed muscle in my body told me it was a trap, but I fought the urge to run. Maybe he was just an isolated old man with poor social skills. Was it so unlikely that I had maxed out my credit card buying new clothes for my senior fall semester? My icy opinion was based solely on his outward appearance, and I had spent the past three years fighting my former-cheerleader instincts to condemn people for aesthetic reasons.

Still, I stuffed a can of pepper spray in my raincoat.

Now all the swirling apprehension about this place that I had struggled to hold back was confirmed. As I dropped the phone, he came at me, face contorted, but no words coming out. He grabbed my arm, but I lifted it sharply to break away, screaming.

“Don’t touch me!”

Maybe I _deserved_ a comeuppance for what I did in high school, when I thought the world was mine, but I would not let some old man rape me without a fight. I bolted for the door, but it didn’t budge as I pushed and pulled frantically at the handle, forgetting in panic that he had locked it.

I heard him behind me, “Th…th… thh…” His hands were on me again, pulling me away from my escape route.

“No, let me go!” I shrieked.

His teeth were gritted, and his blue eyes flamed in desperation. I braced against the door and kicked him away, sending him staggering back far enough for me to pull the pepper spray from my pocket and raise it. All the while he kept struggling, fighting to force out words that seemed too large to fit.

“S… sss… ssss…” he snarled like a feral beast.

“Stay back! Don’t come near me!” I barked, brandishing the canister at his bulging eyes. To my surprise, he stopped. He held his hands up in surrender, still spitting and choking on syllables which would not cooperate.

“ _Th… th… s-s-sss_ …” 

“What?” I demanded, mace still pointed at his face. “What are you saying?”

He breathed in, chest inflating. “S… s… s… Someone’s in the back seat!” He shouted, hoarse and panting with the effort. His wild eyes relaxed slightly now that his message was delivered, and searched my face for understanding.

“My back seat? What are you talking about?”

“C-c-c-call… th-the police!” He raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated glance to the dropped phone receiver.

My eyes followed his to the weighty black rotary phone, as old and outdated as everything in the small office-workshop. Calling the police on him was exactly what I wanted to do, and it took my mind a moment to catch up with the disconnect of him suggesting it. What was he playing at? How could there have been someone in my back seat this entire time? Then again, the Explorer was big enough that a family of drifters could have moved in without drawing my attention. Either way, calling the cops seemed like a good idea. I backed my way across the room, holding him at arm’s length with the pepper spray.

“Get back,” I ordered him as I circled, and we traded places in the room. He complied, stepping wide out of my path as if _I_ were the dangerous one. The phone still lay on the floor, helplessly beeping its dial-tone. My eyes never left him as I knelt to pick it up, waiting for him to spring. Yet he didn’t move to stop me, even as my fingers dialed the numbers 9-1-1. Encouraging your victim to call emergency dispatch wasn’t the usual _Modus operandi_ of a rapist, or kidnapper, but I had no proof of his tall tale about a stranger in my car. I would tell the operator the whole story — including the creepy station attendant. If his idea was for me to call 911 to paint him as innocent before he killed me, he’d better think again.

As I got through to dispatch, I let my attention slip, and the spray canister lower. The moment my defense was dropped, he came at me again. I screamed in the operator’s ear, but he rushed past me, disappearing deeper into the back of his cluttered mechanic shop. I spun with the phone still pressed to my ear, wrapping the corkscrew cord around me. He was gone. I leaned back on top of the desk, toppling a few tools off it in the process, and watched for him as I gave my location and began to recount my story. I mentioned the alleged backseat intruder, but that I wasn’t certain the attendant didn’t make it up.

Uncertainty came shattering into reality as the large storefront window smashed from the outside. An axe head punched through the center of a spiderweb of cracks. A dark silhouette pulled it out, to swing again.

I shrieked, “He’s got an axe! He’s here! Oh god, help me! Help me, _please!_ ”

“Find a place to hide, quickly. The police are on their way.”

That was all the dispatcher could do: tell me to hide. _As if I didn’t already know that_. Help was coming, but it was too late. The dark figure was already pushing in through the broken window as I blindly stumbled backwards. My foot snagged on something on the shop floor, and my stomach flipped. For a moment, I was weightless, and then a searing pain ripped through my skull as it cracked against the cement. The figure was inside now, and advanced too quickly, until it stood over me like a shadow. There was nothing I could do but scramble backwards on my hands, fighting through spots that clouded my vision.

The axe raised up above its hooded head.

A concussive blast shattered my eardrums and made my already swimming vision turn to white. When my senses recovered, I realized that I wasn’t bleeding. The axe fell silently. I could feel the sharp vibration through my palms as it impotently struck the floor, unaccompanied by any sound but steady ringing. Then the cloaked figure crumpled. Over my shoulder stood the gas station attendant, eyes wide as a spooked horse, clutching an old shotgun with whitened knuckles.

“Oh my god!” I blubbered. Though I could barely hear my own voice, as though my ears were plugged with cotton, I bawled, “I could see my life flashing before my eyes! He almost killed me! Did you see that?”

He stood, chest heaving, unable to process what he had done. Of course he had seen that, what was I saying? Oceans swelled within his eyes, and demons lay beneath the waves, clawing to pull him under. My pitiful bleating was out of depth with his look of horror. He tossed aside the gun like it was a venomous snake, and stumbled past me to the disarmed assailant on the floor.

“No!” I cried, certain the black-robed figure would spring up and stab him. The painful, iron-tasting ringing sound rose in pitch.  

The gas station attendant, heedless of my warning, knelt and picked up the would-be murderer’s wrist. He squeezed his eyes closed in concentration, silently hoping. After trying different places on the wrist, his face finally crumpled in grief. Glaring light from a utility lamp exposed an inconspicuous tear running down his cheek. I knew then what kind of person he was. He wasn’t a villainous caricature from a horror movie. That muzzle-loading shotgun was a decoration piece he never wanted to fire — not even at an axe-murderer. He went through a lot of trouble to rescue me.

He pulled back the black hood to unveil the killer’s face, and let out a howl of anguish. “N-n-n-no! God… g-god, no!”

My head swayed, but I pushed my scraped hands against the concrete until I was sitting upright enough to see. It was a young girl, around my age. She had a curly mess of blond-highlighted hair tied back in a ponytail, shaped eyebrows, and a cute silver necklace. She didn’t look like a monster; she looked like someone I would be friends with. Even her clothing was no longer the flowing cult-member robe my eyes had deceived me into seeing — it was just a black winter coat with a fur-trimmed hood. My stuttering savior crumbled beside the body in tears. His head hung between his two shoulders, which jolted erratically with each wave of sobs. 

“D-d-d-d-do you… kn-kn-kn-n-nnn-know her?” he forced out between gasps.

“I… I don’t think so,” I said, and the words tasted like iron, too. “Please tell me this wasn’t just a prank or something. Please tell me this wasn’t a prank.” My mind raced with ways this might have been my old sorority playing a trick, that the axe was just rubber, or she was about to pull her hood off and yell _surprise!_ I knew better than anyone how a joke could turn deadly. Tears wet my face, but the mechanic was doing far worse. He sucked in air like a man suffocating, and the skin under his eyes was stinging bright red and swollen.

“I… didn't… I dddidn’t m-m-m-m-m-mean to…”

Dragging my bruised and shaking body across the cold concrete, I closed the distance to the wretched mess of a human and leaned against him, cradling his back in a comforting gesture. _I fucked up another decent person,_ I thought. Here was a gentle soul, and I made him into a killer. When I looked at him, I saw Natalie Simon, just as broken, three years before. She had never forgiven me for what I did. How long until this man realized it was all my fault, and jerked out from under from my clumsy attempt to offer solace? As I thought of it, the mechanic turned suddenly, as if only then recognizing my presence. Rather than pull away with revulsion, he put his hands on my shoulders and attentively looked me in the eye.

“A-are…. y-you…. a… a… alr-r-right, m-miss?”

I squinted back at him, and smiled sleepily. I couldn’t quite answer the question, because my mind had become fixed on the co-captain of my high school spirit squad, and the memory of what had just happened was already jumbled and missing pieces. _Why wouldn’t I be alright?_ My head was swelling on one side, and the axe, glinting on the floor reminded me of the moment it was glinting above my head. _That’s right, I was almost killed, and this guy saved me. But how did we get on the ground?_ All I knew was that, somehow, it was my fault. My chest felt like a hummingbird being crushed in someone’s hand. The station attendant knelt before me, the shattered glass of his office around his knees, as a pool of blood slowly spread. He couldn’t stem the flowing of his own tears, yet he managed to look at me with selfless concern and care I hadn’t felt since I was a child running to my mother with a scraped knee. I wanted to apologize for all of it, but my mouth couldn’t remember how to form words.

The world turned, and I dipped, but strong arms caught me. He gathered me up and held me close against his chest, safe, and warm. He carried me away from the body, and the blood, and slid down to rest against a cabinet in a safe corner of the room while we waited for help. My thoughts slowed, and the pain numbed, though a drumming still filled my ears — whether my own or his heartbeat I couldn’t distinguish. His ragged breath and an occasional droplet on my shoulder told me he hadn’t stopped crying. My eyelids dropped closed and I leaned back into his warmth, unaware of any awkwardness or inhibition. He sat up a little more erect, pushing me upright again.

“Wh-wh-where do you go to school?”

“Hmm?” I murmured dreamily, “no, I’m tired… Later…” I just wanted to lean into his arms, and fall asleep.

“You c-can’t – can’t sss-s-sleep… now.” His voice insisted, wheedling it’s way into my head. “Are… are you a sss-student?”

“Uh… it's… Mountain Lake — no, it’s Pendleton.”

He spoke to me, gently but urgently, stammering out another hasty question wherever the fog of sleep threatened to overtake me. I told him about my friends, and classes, and muttered some confused nonsense about choosing the correct foundation for one’s skin tone. He worked hard forcing himself to continue asking questions, but he wouldn’t give up keeping me engaged in conversation. If I became lucid enough to ask questions about _him_ , he froze up. I managed to coax out of him that he lived and worked there all by himself. He was as alone as I imagined, but I was wrong about what he might do to alleviate that loneliness. Having a concussed co-ed draped in his arms must have been a shock, and a rare opportunity. Yet despite the fear I had held, just a few eternal minutes ago, that he was planning to assault me, he didn’t attempt anything untoward. He didn’t try to “accidentally” touch my chest, or slide a hand just slightly too far up my leg. I was completely at his mercy, and all he did was hold me protectively, keeping me upright so I wouldn’t pass out. This was why I was learning to bite back the ridicule that always threatened to vomit forth when I saw someone who looked different. I’d known handsome young guys who wouldn’t strike anybody as _freaks_ , but who took blacking out drunk as a romantic overture.

He stayed by my side, talking (as best he could) to keep me awake, until sirens screamed through the night air, and blue and red strobe lights turned the rain into a glowing field of laser beams.

Uniformed police officers, guns drawn, peered in through the shattered window and saw us huddled together — me injured, and him still crying — near the dead body of a young girl. They shouted orders for us to separate and put our hands up. I wobbled to my feet in compliance. Then three officers at once sprang through the gaping window and descended upon the gas station attendant, shoving him and putting him in handcuffs. The last thing I had said on the 911 call was “he’s got an axe,” and here was a _girl_ on the floor dead, and only one _he_ in the room. My throat was dry and my head was listing, but I raised my voice above the clamoring officers to clarify that he was not the aggressor. He saved me from the dead girl —  she was wearing a hood and I had misspoken.

Whether or not they believed me or heard me through the chaos, the officers insisted on interrogating him brusquely, dragging him from the scene. In stark contrast, only one officer escorted me from the cramped workshop, and he didn’t handcuff me, but offered me his arm to lean on. Outside, the once-abandoned parking lot was ablaze with emergency lights from two fire trucks, an ambulance, and no less than five police cruisers, and dozens of people bustled about taking pictures, cordoning off areas with tape, and setting up tarps against the rain. When he questioned me, he was nothing but polite. My innocence, as an attractive young girl, was a foregone conclusion. The officers’ sensitivity was misplaced. I traded insults like others traded baseball cards; I could have handled nastiness better than my rescuer. His stutter grew worse the more nervous he was, and faced with harsh accusations of murder, his throat seemed to close entirely until his mouth made the shapes of sounds but nothing could come out.

“Hey! He’s got a speech impediment, he’s not stupid!” I shouted, “Just ask me if you want to hear the story faster, asshole.”

The outburst didn’t win me any favors with the detectives, who only then became uncertain whether it was I, or the dead girl, who had phoned for help. I swallowed, and hoped I hadn’t just earned myself an arrest. They asked me if I knew who that dead girl was, and didn’t seem to believe me when I told them I had no idea who she was or why she was in my car with an axe. My frail figure and head wound, however, gave me a pathetic appearance that didn’t speak to “femme fatale.” The cops were naturally inclined to believe me as the innocent victim, and though the car mechanic looked the part of a murderer, I told them otherwise again and again until they understood. Slowly, they seemed to come around. The scene they had walked in on, of two rattled survivors clinging to each other, was unmistakable in the story it told.

The police inspected my Ford Expedition, took the shotgun and axe, and taped off the crime scene. What they found, an officer informed me after what felt like hours, corroborated our story. The axe found near the body was real, sharpened steel. Michael McDonnell had a good case for self-defense.

“A case?” That’s when I noticed an officer putting my rescuer into the back seat of a police cruiser. “Hey! Hey, what’s going on? He didn’t do anything! Stop it, you can’t do this!”

“Excuse me miss,” the officer tersely addressed me, “He shot a twenty year old girl in the chest with a shotgun. You’ve both admitted to that.”

“But… but… you can’t _arrest him_ for saving my life! Am _I_ under arrest?”

“Do you want to be?” he quipped, “If you had anything to do with that Jane Doe’s death that you’ve been withholding, now’s the time to talk. No? Good. There was a homicide. That’s cause for a full investigation. We can’t let a killer run free until we’ve determined that this was truly self defense. So far the evidence is holding in your favor, and if everything happened as you say, he won’t be charged with anything. It’s just procedure, miss.”

It broke my heart to see him sitting in the back like a criminal, eyes unfocused and demoralized. His wet hair clung to his face. I pounded on the glass of the cop car until he looked up from his reverie.

“Thank you… I… You saved me… I’m gonna help you, somehow! Just hold on, okay?”

He gave me a tired smile. Too exhausted to try to say anything, he merely nodded.

I turned back to the officer. “He seems creepy at first, but he just has trouble talking. He’s a good guy. Please don't…”

“We’ll go easy on him, miss. Sounds like he did a good thing tonight.”

Then I was in the back of the ambulance, uncertain whether it had been hours, or minutes since I was attacked. The doors closed behind me, shutting out the commotion of the rain and the busy crime scene. In the hush, my head began to feel fuzzy again, and the desire to sleep returned like a lead weight. Only one thought stood out in the discordant memory of what happened. Somehow, it was my fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle tries to get on with her life, but it might not be so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter subject to change, as I have decided to upload chapter-by-chapter before completing the full story. If major re-writes happen... they happen. Read on at your own risk!

I spent the night in the hospital where I was treated for a “Grade 2” concussion. It was just as well that the nurses instructed me not to drive for the next few days, since the police were holding my vehicle as evidence. I thought about calling my parents. Dad might want to know about it if getting held for evidence was going to affect the vehicle's title in any way. _Maybe tomorrow, when I can think straight,_ I decided. Besides, if they knew I was in the hospital they might want to come and visit. Then I might _really_ die.

Sleep was a cold, dark place that night, leaving me breathless in the battle both for and against it. My eyes did not want to close in the unfamiliar room, filled with unfamiliar noises from the rustling of the dry curtains, to the beeping of monitors, to the footsteps of doctors in the hall. Nurses woke me up every two hours to make sure my brain wasn't bleeding. Sleep was instantly scourged from my retinas in a blinding white flash, and they'd ask if I knew where I was, and who I was. I was Michelle, I remembered each time, and I was just bleeding out on the cold, wet concrete of a gas station parking lot — which was the only reason I didn't slap them for so rudely shaking me awake. Falling back asleep was the hard part, barely managed before another round of flashlights in my eyes. When the morning finally came, and the light that woke me was the clear September sky, I groaned in horror. I must have slept three hours at most, and none of it was restful. My body and throbbing head felt heavy, but I was free to go.

My roommate thought I had a hangover when my hoarse voice reached her over the phone, begging for a ride.

“Really, Michelle? On a school night? I thought you were gonna get it together senior year.”

“I'm not drunk, I'm at the hospital. I'll explain everything if you just _get over here._ ”

She assumed when I said explain, that there would be a wild story about me getting drunk and trying to do an out-of-practice cartwheel into a tree… something that had been known to happen. When she made it to my room, she found two policemen, a reporter from the school newspaper, _and_ a professional camera crew and reporter from WCAX crammed into the austere hospital room. A nurse helped me into a wheelchair after I gave my statement to the officers, and they were watching on as the press took turns interviewing me. My roommate crept through the doorway like a mouse. I waved her inside, and her eyes widened as she whispered frantically, “ _What happened?!_ ”

Celebrity status was more pain than it was worth. I flashed my best smile for the cameras, but I was certain I looked like a wreck. I was grateful to be able to slip away from the cameras and noise, but, denying me any respite, my roommate barraged me with a flurry of questions as we drove back to campus until I cried, “Watch it on the news, alright!”

We tried to go for our usual morning jog together, but every pounding of my foot against the pavement shot up through the back of my spine, and sloshed my brain against my skull like another concussion. After five minutes of trying to keep up, I stopped, dizzy and swaying. I was drenched in cold sweat, and I could feel the sunken space under my eyes. My roommate, on the other hand, was dazzling even this early in the morning. Her tanned and toned legs always filled out her running shorts better than my scrawny pale ones, even on my best days. Today I looked like a sickly troll compared with her. Even if my health would allow me to carry on, there was no way I could parade around campus as _the ugly friend_. I put my arm around her shoulder and she helped me hobble back to our room.

The clock read a quarter of ten when I finally lurched through the door. I swore under my breath, and started filling up my backpack with heavy textbooks.

“You're not actually going to class all Dawn of the Dead like that, are you? I'm pretty sure having a concussion is a legit excuse to skip. You should rest.”

My hundred-pound limbs and vice-gripped head wanted desperately to agree with my roommate, crawl back in bed, and not move for a week. Yet I groaned, biting back the pain in my voice, “I already failed history last year. If I want to graduate on time, I can't afford to miss a class.”

A quick shower and some miracle-working concealer later, and I was decent enough to be seen outside. Sarah was waiting for me outside the cafe near the history building, checking her watch when I finally arrived. We went in to the small coffee-scented shop together, and I ordered and immediately downed a double-shot espresso. She didn't comment on my ravenous need for caffeine, or on my haggard appearance. Instead, she lowered her voice into a tone most girls would have used for gossip about the football captain hooking up with some skank behind his girlfriend's back, and said, “ _Did you hear_ _Professor McEllis did research in_ _the_ _Paris catacombs_? I can't wait to pick his brain about Victor Hugo!”

“Right, seriously, how cool is that?” I nodded along. Some neuron fired at the back of my brain, a dim spark in the infinite blackness, about last year's French literature class. _Hugo. Catacombs_. _Opera?_

I didn't defensively comment about Sarah's tangled curls or her flaky skin, even though they were pressure points that could sting her ego just as keenly as her reminder of how air-headed I was. But this wasn't high school. We didn't claw at each other like animals fighting for dominance. It had taken years, but I'd learned to avoid friends who live to tear each other down. Instead, I nodded and smiled as she ran intellectual laps around me, and reminded myself how incredibly lucky I was to be re-taking European History with someone as smart as Sarah. If I stuck close to her, I might just land a B.

Inside the old building Julie's footfalls clattered along the marble hall. Sarah and I dipped under her weight as she overtook us from behind, grabbing our packs for support. Though I knew it was her, a scream tore from my throat, and the high trill echoed down the hall. I clapped a hand over my mouth. For a split second, Julie's long brown hair became the curly ponytail of my attacker. She released our bags, and stepping between us, flung an arm over each of our shoulders.

“I caught you!” she giggled, face flushed and breathless from running, oblivious to my reaction.

Sarah clicked her tongue. “You wouldn't have if Michelle hadn't been late, too.”

“Dammit, Julie,” I snapped, “Us _human beings_ are still waking up, it's way too early for your hyperactive shit.”

She winced at the rebuke, and her exuberance faded. Though she was hurt, she forced a small apologetic smile that made me feel like I'd kicked a puppy. Julie was two years younger than Sarah and I, and underneath her buoyant exterior, she was worried about taking this higher level class with us. Though she could be irritating at times, I still thought of her as my little sister in need of protecting.

“Sorry, I barely slept last night…”

“You night-owls both need to set your alarms earlier,” Sarah chided, patting us both on the shoulder like her wayward children. “See, at least Mark knows what he's doing.”

The three of us rounded the corner into the open lecture hall, and sure enough, Mark was already sitting in the second row, guarding three prime center seats for us. After the first few days of class, everyone settled in to a self-enforced assigned seating arrangement, so by getting in early for us, Mark was shrewdly assuring we'd have the best seats for the rest of semester. As I slid in the row beside him, he noted my appearance.

“Jesus Christ, Michelle, you look like a train wreck.”

I had known Mark since high school, so he felt pretty comfortable being blunt with me. Sarah had more erudite interests than appearances, and Julie might have been too ditsy to notice, but Mark knew I was too shallow to leave the house with no product in my hair unless something was wrong.

“Rough night… I'll tell you after class…” I grunted.

Professor McEllis made that promise impossible to keep. Within minutes of his lecture starting, my head lay in a nest of my arms on the desk. Halfway through the hour-long class, my eyes fell closed, and the misty darkness behind my lids must have taken me. The next thing I knew, my eyes were snapping open again to a loud rap beside my head — _an_ _axe?_ I jumped up, loudly scraping the metal legs of my chair backward. An uproar of laughter burst around the room. Professor McEllis stood in front of me, reaching over the front row to smack my desk with a ruler.

“Have you chosen a topic yet, Ms. Mancini?” he was barely hiding a sneer. He'd failed me last year, and was clearly neither expecting an improvement in my performance, nor looking forward to teaching me again.

“What?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes with the back of my hand.

He smirked with triumph. “The topic for your thesis assignment. The forty page research paper due by the end of the semester? Weren't you listening? Paying attention is important, Ms. Mancini. This assignment is worth half your grade. You wouldn't want to have to take the course _again_.”

My cheeks burned with humiliation and indignation. He knew I hadn't been listening; he just wanted to embarrass me in front of the class. Little did he know his hostility was about to backfire. My roommate was right; my excuse this time was solid.

“Sorry, professor,” I replied defiantly, “I must have drifted off, since I was almost murdered last night and barely got any sleep at the hospital.” My chest puffed out in pride as I awaited his groveling for forgiveness.

“Is that the best you could come up with? I had hoped you would put in more effort this year, at least on your excuses.”

My mouth flopped open, and I realized Sarah and Mark were looking at me skeptically, too. _Nobody has any reason to believe that. It sounds like_ _bullshit I made up on the spot_ _._ Julie, however, didn't need evidence or common sense to trust me.

“You can't talk to her like that, you old fart!” she blurted, making McEllis's ears turn red.

“Excuse me? Is that… Ms. Addison? After I gave special permissions for you to enroll in this course… unacceptable. Both of you, out. You will come see me after class to convince me why I should allow you remain in attendance.”

Julie's cheeks puffed, and I could see her mouth twitching to launch into a full tirade. I grabbed her arm and whispered, “Forget it, let's just go.”

She walked out with me, and after an exchange of concerned glances, Mark and Sarah grabbed their bags and followed.

“That was really stupid, Jule,” I shook my head. She smiled earnestly.

“You'd have done the same for me.”

Last year, when she was a freshman, Julie tried to rush my sorority. We got her wasted on vodka shots, which was bad enough — she was only 18 and never drank before. Still, when I was cheer captain, I'd gotten girls younger than her smashed, and I'd laughed while they vomited all over themselves. This wasn't any different, I told myself. What moral authority had I to say “stop,” even if it didn't seem funny anymore? Then I found out the other girls wanted me, as her “big sister,” to drive her out to a field in the middle of nowhere, push her out of the car, and drive away, leaving her stranded.

I had watched in silence ever since _my_ freshman year as the philanthropy-focused juniors and seniors who rushed me graduated, and were replaced by sisters only interested in partying. I stood by apathetically as they made crazier rules, and turned the once welcoming house into a jealously exclusive clique. I might have stayed there, languishing in company I no longer wanted to keep just because I didn't know who else to be if not one of them — but I could not abide another deadly car prank. My blood pressure spiked, and I screamed at the other sisters, unleashing every frustration I had locked inside for the previous two years. Then I grabbed Julie's hand and got her out of there. The next day, I officially dropped out, and discovered they'd kicked Julie out, too, for not completing the hazing ritual. She was furious with me until she pleaded to be let back in, and found out what they'd been planning to do to her. Now she was loyal to the point of shouting down a professor.

“I'm just glad you're still alive,” she marveled. “You've gotta spill on what happened!”

“That was completely inappropriate of him to single you out in front of the class like that,” Sarah huffed, catching up. “Completely unprofessional.”

“Is it true?” Mark inquired, narrowed eyes scouring my drained appearance. Sarah tipped her head to hear my response, too.

“Yeah. Some crazy bitch attacked me with an axe, and I fell on my head.” I gave a summarized version of events as we walked.

“If you have a concussion, there'd be a bump, right?” he asked more pressingly. He wanted proof. I groped the back of my head until a swollen point erupted into pain. I let him touch it, so he'd believe me. His fingers were less careful than mine in finding the raised spot, and less certain that it was there, because he couldn't feel the needling, blinding agony shooting from the spot where bare concrete had tried to cave in my cranium. At least he nodded, at last, and confirmed to the others that I wasn't lying.

With an entire half hour free, we wandered together to the student center. People kept staring at us as we walked across the green to the towering building at the center of campus, like they had already heard about the scene we'd caused in class. When we got there, a small crowd was gathered around the newsstand, and a few gawked openly. One girl whispered out loud, “Is that her?” The group parted as we approached, and I saw blazoned across the front page of the latest issue of the school paper:

HAZING GONE WRONG? EX-SORORITY GIRL ALMOST AXED

“Professor McEllis owes me a big apology!” I crowed, already thinking of how this could turn my B into an A.

An unflattering picture of me in the hospital this morning, along with one of the gas station attendant taken in the police station last night, proved the paper's editor had spared no time printing the story. _They ought to be breaking news for the New York Times churning out articles so fast_.

Mark grabbed a paper from the rack, and Sarah tugged a corner toward her so she could read it too. When she was finished, her eyes full of were tears, and she demanded, “Why didn't you say something?” Then dragged me into a bear hug that Julie joined in on.

Julie snatched the paper from Mark when he was done, held up the paper to me, and pointed to the attendant's picture. “This freaky dude really shot some girl? Good thing he shot her instead of you!”

“Right? What a sketch-ball,” Mark agreed, wrinkling his nose. My cheeks flamed, and I considered contradicting them… but they were right. How would I look if I told them he was _nice?_

“Brenda Bates?” Sarah mulled over the name. “Did I have a class with her? Did you know her, Michelle?”

On the next page of the article, there was a picture of that girl with the wild curls, staring down the camera with intensity. She was beautiful. Not covered in blood, or wielding a weapon, she looked every bit the average college student, but something in her eyes made my skin crawl.

“No. I've never seen her before in my life…”

I took the paper. “Michael McDonnell,” it read, “was released from police custody this morning after a violent incident which ended with the slaying of Brenda Bates, a student here at Pendleton University. McDonnell, 48, admits to shooting Bates, 20, with a high-caliber hunting shotgun, but authorities are calling it a clear case of self defense. Eyewitness Michelle Mancini, 21, and also a student at Pendleton, claims Bates had been hiding in the back seat of her car and attacked her with an axe when McDonnell interceded with deadly force. Mancini was rushed to the emergency room with injuries sustained during the attack. Investigators have yet to reveal a motive, but the whimsicality of the urban legend reenactment suggests that this may have been a campus prank gone wrong. Police say they will be interviewing Mancini's former sorority house, and Bates's classmates for any clues that she was involved in a hazing ritual. 'This is a terrible tragedy,' said Chief of Police Bartholomew Underwood, 'but as of this moment there is nothing to suggest the killing was anything but defensive. It took place at [McDonnell's] place of business and property, and all witness accounts and physical evidence line up. We urge students to never make deadly threats in jest, and will be investigating any reports of student organizations that may be encouraging dangerous behavior.' Those who knew Brenda are shocked and saddened by the loss of an always-cheerful friend and classmate.”

My heart sank. _So it really was just a hazing?_ It didn't feel like a prank when she smashed through the window of that garage. If she was only trying to scare me, why was the weapon real? A frightening possibility crossed my mind. It was hard to get into a sorority senior year, and my ex-sisters still hated me for leaving. Maybe to earn her way in, Brenda had to kill me. If so, would they send another?

Worse, though, was how that Michael McDonnell was going to feel when he read this. He had been crushed enough having to shoot her when he believed he was saving my life, and now the police were convinced it was a practical joke? That he overreacted? I felt terrible for bringing all that down on him. I looked at his picture: black and white, and washed-out in grainy newspaper print. The contrast turned his eyes into empty skeletal sockets, and his expression was stiff and uncomfortable.I couldn't blame my friends for thinking he was “freaky.” The ghastly photograph was nothing like him in person. His face may have been angular and sallow, but once you had seen it melt into an expression of sorrow, or look at you with those soulful blue eyes filled with tenderness, there was nothing frightening at all in his features.

Between arriving for gas, and the ambulance showing up, I could only have known that man for twenty minutes, yet looking at his picture calmed my shaken nerves like warm tea with honey. My lingering headache seemed to ease remembering that a stranger had risked his own life to protect me. He kept me awake. Comforted me. He cried. I couldn't get the image of that face out of my mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle is haunted by her past, but doesn't hesitate to take advantage of her present situation.

A labyrinth of dark, narrow corridors stretched before me, extending on to eternity until they disappeared into shadow. I ran. Air pumped through my burning lungs, and with each pounding step knives of pain shot through my sides — but still I forced my strained body forward.

Another cloaked figure had found me. Somewhere behind me, a ghost in the darkness, it hunted. The sharpened edge of its blade was the only glitter of light in the onyx building. I came to an intersection of hallways and dodged around a corner, praying I was far enough ahead that it wouldn't see which path I chose.

I couldn't remember, through the haze of terror, how the chase had begun, only that it had found me. The sorority must have sent another assassin to finish what Brenda couldn't. I spited them — abandoned them — thinking I could become someone better than I was, but there was no denying my heartless nature, and no escaping what I deserved. They would send another if this one failed, and another after that. One for every life I'd ruined. One for every girl I'd called fat. One for every girl I called ugly, and booted off the team because I was afraid they were better than me.

One for every Julie I _didn't_ help.

One for Natalie.

One for the station attendant.

Who was this one for, I wondered? It wasn't fair that I could only die once, for once was not enough for everything I'd done. Still I ran, stubbornly defying retribution until the soles of my feet stung like a thousand needles. The faceless specter swept around the corner, drawn to me as if we were bound together by rope.

I ran.

The ancient black corridors swept by, but the faster I sprinted, the faster still it followed until I could feel its shadow on my back. The sharp blade sunk into my skin with a metallic hiss. My mouth opened, but no one within miles could hear my scream. No one would help. No sound came out at all. Still I fled, blood spraying like warm red velvet down my back as I groped along the walls for a door. My only choice was to hide.

The apparition waited, and let me get ahead. Let me hope I could escape. How many times could it kill me? How many strokes of the knife had I earned?

A sliver of light shone under the crack of a door just ahead. Someone was awake, somewhere. If I could reach it, maybe… My fingers closed around the cold knob, and turned.

Rain poured down outside, beating the tin roof, but inside the garage was dry and glowing with incandescence. The man's hair was drenched and clung to his face. He was ghoulish, and grease-smeared, and familiar. I ran to him, and his arms closed around me. Glass shattered as a hundred cloaks that moved like night forced their way in. Their blades swung to open my flesh and drain the remainder of life from my bleeding husk. I hid my face against him, and closed them out. The soft fabric of his shirt and the warmth of his arms washed over me like anesthetic. I squeezed my eyes shut until all I could see was the light…

The light shone through my window brightly — dawn had already broken, and the sun had begun to ascend its arc through the sky. The headache that had plagued me all of yesterday had effervesced while I dreamed, and I felt considerably better for the full night's sleep. The sky was too bright already. My roommate should have already woken me up for our jog. Her bed was made, and empty. The thought had barely crossed my mind, when the door opened, and she bounced in, clad in her running shorts with a tell-tale film of sweat.

“Michelle, you're up! I didn't want to disturb you with your, you know…” she jerked her head meaningfully. My trauma. I was about to protest, but she continued, “I brought you coffee and a bagel, if you want.”

She delivered them right to my bed, so I wouldn't have to get up.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised by her thoughtfulness. I ripped open the wax paper covering the bagel, stomach already growling at the toasty smell. She had never done anything like this when we roomed together last year. Then I remembered — _My trauma._ “This really means a lot,” I went on, tone shifting to the martyred voice my mother used when I didn't call. “It _is_ still pretty painful to move. Oh, I don't want you to worry about me though. I'm fine, really…”

“Are you kidding, Michelle? You almost _died!_ Anything you need, seriously.”

“Anything?”

****

Almost being murdered could be a lucrative experience. That day, McEllis pulled me aside to formally apologize. He was absolutely contrite for publicly humiliating me. If I fell asleep in class, it was only natural after “surviving that nightmare,” he simpered He couldn't imagine what I was going through, and was so inspired by my bravery – I could take all the time I needed to recover.

I could see what was _really_ behind his eyes, and it wasn't compassion. He was imploring from bended knee that I not report his behavior to the dean, or, god forbid, a journalist. A professor mocking an injured student and kicking her out of class could ruin his reputation, and chance of tenure. By the time he was through giving his condolences, I was feeling much more confident of that A.

After classes, Mark carried my textbook-laden backpack all the way to Daley Hall for me, though he lived on the other side of campus. I snatched it from him as we reached the door, and I sagged dramatically beneath its weight.

“Want me to bring that inside for you,” he offered, “maybe, stick around awhile and make sure you're okay?”

“No thanks. I'm too tired for company. I'm going to go take a long nap,” I yawned theatrically. _In other words, I've got plans; get lost_.

He cast a pitying look over me. “Okay, feel better soon. I'll make a copy of today's notes for you, since you're so out of it.”

“Oh wow, thank you!” I squealed, and shut the door.

****

The police released my Ford Expedition from evidence, so I had my roommate take me to get it back. It lumbered green and ominous on the impound lot. I grabbed my roommate’s hand and made her stay with me as I unlocked it. 

 _If there were another killer back there, Forensics would have found it,_ I scolded myself. At least I confirmed that all my things had been returned, and my luggage was all more or less where I had left it. The box of cassette tapes was out of order, as if someone had dumped it out — which I supposed an investigator _had_. I suppressed the thought that the same must have been true of my suitcases full of clothing and underwear.

Despite having my first chance in days to change into my own clothes, I didn’t follow my roommate back to Daley. Instead I drove, with a full tank, toward a gas station.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle returns to the scene of the crime, and the reader realizes this is a crossover fic.

After the pressure strips announced my large SUV’s arrival with a chipper _ding-ding_ and the attendant failed to appear, I wondered once again whether the station was abandoned. Yellow tape reading POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS was wrapped over the door of the office he had lured me into, and the window was crudely boarded up with a sheet of plywood. 

Otherwise, it looked considerably less eerie in broad daylight, without the macabre ambiance of rain, thunder, and police cruisers.

_HOOOOONK!_

Just to be a jerk, I laid on the horn. If he _was_ here, he was sure to hear that. In parody of my impatience the last time I had parked beside these gas pumps, I honked a few more times. Finally, he ran out of the garage, harried. He looked even worse than when he was driven away handcuffed in the back seat of a police car. Dark crescents hollowed under his eyes and a fine layer of stubble had grown in, as if he hadn't slept since that night.

I leaned out the window and gave an “It's me!” smile, so he would know I wasn't an angry customer. He stopped in his tracks as he recognized me, and his melancholy expression evaporated. His lips pressed together into a tight smile, and he bowed his head like a shy schoolboy as he shuffled over to the side of my vehicle.

He wasn't unhappy to see me, but worry lines erupted expressively across his forehead, beneath loose strands of peppery uncombed hair. His eyes darted from me, to the gas pumps, to the ground as his mouth opened and closed searching for something to say.

“So, you wanna check the back?” I asked playfully, tossing my bangs.

It was meant to be cute, but the stricken stare he returned made my impish charm crack like the glass of his office. Bringing this car here and joking about it, I realized too late, was callous. He had been forced to shoot the last person to sit back there. He probably didn't even want to see me. I was about to sink into the seat cushions, and drive straight off a cliff, when I heard him stammering,

“N… n… no thanks!” He gave a sarcastic chuckle, shaking his head. His eyebrows pinched together in an overhang, and beneath them eyes as blue as the clear sky searched me. “H-how are you hol… holding up?”

The genuine concern in his voice took me aback. He wasn't asking to be polite, but as if the question had laid heavy on his chest, and the answer was consequential. I wasn't accustomed to dealing in such raw honesty.

“Better than you, I bet,” I deflected with a cheeky grin. “This place looks like shit.”

He didn't laugh this time, but withered, eyes lowering back to the ground. The edges of my mouth fell. He didn't have any of the walls and defenses everybody else in the world spent their lives building up. He didn't know how to be prickly — how to skirt around feelings in a game of banter. I needed to learn to blunt my thorns to keep from puncturing him.

“Hey, I'm kidding — I'm just giving you crap. It's, like, a college thing. I didn't mean anything… Look, I just stopped by to thank you. You saved my life. I'm glad the cops let you go. Sorry for nearly hitting you in the face with pepper spray.” I extended a hand out the window. “I'm Michelle Mancini, by the way.”

He shook it graciously, his calloused fingers closing around mine, making them look fragile and pale as porcelain by comparison. A lifetime of working with machine parts left the back of his hand marked with ugly, round scars. Those worker's hands must have been brawny enough to rip off rusted lug nuts, but his grip was light and meek.

“M… Michael McDonnell… but y… you can c-c-call — call me Bill.”

“Bill?” I giggled, “That's a weird nickname for Michael.”

“It's muh-muh-muh-muh…” He closed his eyes in frustration as another car pulled up before he could finish.

“Don't let me get in the way… Do you mind if I park over there, and stay awhile?”

His eyes caught me off balance, and I saw the answer in them before he could manage, “P-p-please!”

****

The body had been removed days ago, but the office was still off-limits in case the detectives wanted to give it another look. He set up a make-shift area to act as his office-in-exile in the garage, with a phone he'd dragged down from his apartment, and a locking tool box to serve as a cash register. That's where we sat together, on metal folding chairs, talking for the better part of the afternoon.

“So, let me get this straight. They _arrested_ you… but you're not going to jail?” I wrinkled my nose at the word “arrested,” and tipped my head quizzically to the side.

He shrugged his shoulders to suggest he was as ignorant of the legal process as I was, though I suspect he was just trying to make me feel less dumb. “B-B… Bre… Bre…” he gasped, “ _Her_ parents wa-wanted to p-p-press charges, but the… the state says th-there isn't… enough… eh-evidence for… for a trial.”

“Is her family as nuts as she is?” I sprang from my chair, “She would have chopped my head off, and they want to press charges against _you?_ ”

“They d… don't think shh-she did it… Said they'd hire a… p-p-private investigator to… f-f-find out the t-t-truth…” His head hung despondently, and his arms wrapped around himself.

“Hey,” I sat back down, and scooted closer to him. “The _truth is_ , you saved my life, so no investigator is going to find anything that says otherwise. Don't worry about it.”

He tilted his head up at me with red-rimmed eyes and a wearied smile. “I still…” he began, but the thought dissolved on his tongue. “Nnn… never shoot anyone,” he concluded with a significant look that rippled his forehead. It was the best he could do to lighten the mood.

“Hah. I'll keep that sage wisdom in mind, Bill,” I smiled.

I had to admit, I liked him more than I expected. He wasn't the brainless hillbilly I'd originally pegged him for. He didn't just fill gas tanks, but knew car engines inside and out, and could repair just about anything… even the rusted-out jalopies falling apart out on the lot. People brought him their hopeless cases to fix, or he'd tow them away for a fee, re-build them, and sell them again. I began to wonder what he was even doing in a place like this… then he would try to speak.

Every time, his lips first would twitch into a lopsided cringe. It was a reflexive flinch, gone so fast it took repeated observation before I was certain it was ever there, but every time he thought to speak his mouth recoiled in advance of the butchered words he knew would come out. “I'm sorry for this,” the habitual spasm seemed to say. Then he would launch into his sentence, face screwing up in agony with each consonant that refused to emerge.

It made him painfully shy. Whenever the bells chimed, and he had to run out to help a customer, he'd come back more frazzled than when he left, as if he'd survived the interaction on willpower alone. Perhaps too many people, like me, assumed unfair things about him the moment he opened his mouth. His speech _was_ disconcerting at first. I had always thought stuttering was just babbling over a repeated syllable, like Porky Pig. Bill did that to some extent, but more often would come to a full stop, and had to elongate the first sound in a hum, or a hiss before the rest of the letters would follow. It looked more like a seizure than what I expected a stutter would be. Even the words which came out intact he enunciated with an odd deliberateness, clinging to each clearly-uttered vowel as if it might be the last coherent word he ever spoke.

I always thought people stuttered because they were shy, but it seemed to me that he was shy _because he stuttered._

Despite his frustration with communicating, he owned and ran the station almost by himself. I wondered how difficult it was for him to do things I would take for granted, like phoning the bank, and how long it took him afterward to recover. The only help he had was a teenage part-timer named Marty, who sauntered in sometime after three with a backpack draped over one shoulder.

“Whoa, sorry man, didn't realize you were, ah…” he covered his eyes and backed out of the garage door suggestively. Bill's face turned the deepest shade of scarlet I have ever seen, and shot out of his chair after the youth. I tugged the hem of my skirt down lower over my thighs.

“Th-th-th-this is MMMichelle, f-from the… newspaper,” Bill explained pointedly, dragging Marty back in.

“Ooh, axe-girl. Right on!”

“That's me.”

“They always return to the scene of the crime,” he nodded slowly, stroking a wisp of a beard.

“Isn't that _criminals?_ ” I had almost forgotten how asinine high school boys were. “I was just thanking your dad for… What?” Both men were convulsing with chuckles and snorts.

“If he was mmm-mine I — I hope he'd wwww-w-work harder.”

“You don't pay me enough to work hard,” the spotty-faced teen retorted, winking at me before grabbing a broom from the corner and disappearing to sweep. Bill shrugged and rolled his eyes.

The exchange was heartening. A ray of sunlight cut through the gloom that surrounded Bill, and for the first time I realized he might not have been a naturally brooding person, but for the circumstances of the last few days. _Once he comes out of his shell, he's got sass, too._

“I, uh, don't… don't have any k-kids.” A service station, he bashfully admitted, would be a hazardous environment for raising children.He wore no wedding ring, either, despite being well into his forties. On paper, I supposed “scary-looking speech-disordered gas station hermit” didn't exactly sound like prince charming, but it was a shame. He deserved someone. He was too soft-hearted to be alone.

“What about any siblings? Nieces, nephews? Are your parents still —”

He drew back like I held a burning match to his skin at the mention of family. _Worse than mine, or tragically deceased?_ I wondered, but tactfully dropped the subject.

He had friends though, in some of his regular customers. When we heard a car pull up to the pumps, he would either frown and wait to see if Marty would handle it, or perk up and stride out without hesitation. It was the engine noise — his ears were so keenly tuned, he knew without looking whether a familiar customer had arrived. Around five o'clock, a sputtering, rumbling engine with a hint of metallic grind made a wide smile brighten his face, and I knew someone important to him had shown up. Naturally, I stood at the door to eavesdrop.

In the light of day, when he wasn't being mistaken for a killer, Bill was surprisingly small and unimposing. This was partly because he always walked with a stoop that made him barely taller than I was. Yet his height over me grew by inches as he straightened out to greet this particular Chevy.

“Rotor's gonna need r-r-re-re-resurfacing,” he observed.

A massive Native American with a long braid of silver hair rose out of the old red truck like a mountain, towering over Bill. “Your superpower is still sharp. How do you always know?”

Bill raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms with cocky self-assurance, and waited for the other to concede.

The old man held up his large hands deferentially, “I'm going to bring it in after a gig in Boston tomorrow.” Then, looking to Bill again, he added, “Does it sound like it will last that long?”

Bill scratched his neck in thought. “Maybe,” he said, but his brow crossed with deepening uncertainty. “Y-you can borrow one of… mmm-mine.”

“You don't got to do that, Billy…”

“I've got plenty of cars, besides… Y-you can't… pay your invoice if your… b-b-breaks fail on I-93.”

A fond smile wrinkled the colossal man's face, and they continued chatting, leaning against his rusty pickup while the tank filled. He noticed the police tape then, and Bill began explaining what happened in a hushed tone I couldn't make out. Suddenly the Indian turned his dark eyes to where I was half-hidden, peeking out the garage door, and he gave a toothy, knowing grin. Bill started fumbling over his words and shaking his head, but the silver-braided giant nudged him playfully, and got back behind the wheel still grinning, and sarcastically intoning, “Sure, sure. I'll pick up that car tomorrow morning, if you're not _otherwise engaged_.” He must have been thrilled to see his reclusive friend with a woman, but I was getting tired of this friendly visit being mistaken for a date. Can't two people just have a conversation? _Plus he's like a million years old — gross._

“Th-th-that was… Chief Bromden,” Bill explained, slinking back to the garage with his hunch fully returned.

“Chief?” I asked, “Is he really, like, a chief?”

“N-not technically, but… he's gone by that name sss-since I met him. His fff… father really w-was one. Watched his… whole tribe fall a — fall apart. Chief's seen a lot of persecution… He wr-wrote a book about th-th-the dehumanization of marginalized g-groups.” His book, The Combine, made the New York Times Best Sellers list for several weeks, and chronicled his tribe's oppression by the government, and his subsequent abuse in a mental ward. Now Bromden traveled the country giving lectures at universities about Native American issues, and institutionalization of groups that don't “fit the mold.”

“Wait, he _broke out_ of an insane asylum?” I exclaimed. “That guy was a nut case?”

“No,” He stated firmly. Wariness filled his gaze as I poisoned the trust we'd been building — I wished I hadn't spoken. “He's not. He shhhh-should never have b-b-been in there. He had… puh-puh-PTSD from the war, and they locked him up, and mmm-made him near cat-c-c-catatonic with shock treatment. They stole half his life, an-an-and not just his. He watched a lot of… p-p-people get worse than how they came in. His book helped mmmm… make changes in the system. He's one of the strongest m-m-men I've ev-ev-ev — ever met. He m-made something of himself, which is b-b-better than I can say.”

His face started twisting up worse than normal as he told the impassioned backstory. The pauses between his words became longer and more jagged. When he finished, I didn't know what to say. I had called his friend crazy, without thinking how much Bill admired him — without thinking about who I was insulting.

“I… um…”

“Ssssssorry… I… I didn't n-need to tell you all that… Y-you probably th-th-think I'm nuts, too.”

“No. No, I don't.” I couldn't believe _he_ was apologizing to _me._ His voice had risen above a low murmur just for a moment — because I was mean — and he dared be sorry? “I… shouldn't have called your friend that. If anyone's crazy here, it's me, you know. I actually checked under my bed last night, like a five year old looking for monsters. When I drove here earlier? I kept checking my rear-view mirror for someone to pop up, even though I checked the backseats before I left. _That's_ crazy. This Brenda thing… Forensics found her hair and skin cells in my car. I just keep thinking about her back there, waiting to kill me, and I don't know _why._ ”

“I… st-still s-s-see her…” he blurted, staring at the ground. “Out of the c-corner of my eye… standing outside… I… d-dream about her. Sh-sh-she was sss-so yuh… yuh…” His jaw clenched, and as his chin sank against his chest, fresh tears began to fall.

Something stirred inside me. Once the news of my narrow escape had spread through campus, I took advantage of it. I basked in the attention, graciously accepted the favors, and let everyone call me brave. I made it into a game so I could forget the cloaked monsters hunting me down for each sin. I wanted to lock out my feelings… but I couldn't watch him cry. My eyes began to prick, and I dragged my chair closer beside his until our knees were nearly touching.

“I'm so sorry.” I confessed.

“You d-didn't do anything,” he sobbed, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes in a futile attempt to stem the flow.

 _Then why does it feel like I did? Because I stopped here, you have blood on your hands. Why did you have to interfere? Didn't you know, Brenda's axe was justice?_ Consumed as I was by remorse, if I at least comforted him, there was something redeemable in my continued existence. I rested the side of my head against his shoulder, and he flinched in surprise. Then he breathed out, and his weight re-settled against me, solid and stalwart. Warm, and mingling with his, my own tears slid reluctantly out onto his petroleum-scented flannel.


	5. Chapter 5

“ _I been silent so long now it’s gonna roar out of me like floodwaters and you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my God; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth! But, please. It’s still hard for me to have a clear mind thinking on it. But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen_.”

I flipped the page of the dog-eared copy Bill had lent me of his friend’s book. When I returned home earlier in the evening to a dark room, and a note from my roommate that read, “Gone to TJ’s,” I decided to spend the night relaxing alone. I laid back on my twin cot, smoothing the purple linens beneath me, and started reading.

The Combine began with coarse introduction that leaped from the page, grabbed me by the collar, and demanded my attention. Then in a precipitous drop, it regressed to the simplistic vocabulary of a child to chronicle his boyhood. The tone of the novel grew cynical as his father was deceived into selling the tribe’s land to the government. His father lost his livelihood and died of alcohol poisoning, leaving Chief behind with his white mother who taught him to reject his heritage. After Chief joined the Army and witnessed the horrors of World War II, the reality of the novel started shifting, with confusing imagery and distorted, hyperbolic descriptions.

Bromden’s use of language to immerse the reader in his mental state was masterful. I wished I could write like that. No wonder the autobiography had won a National Book Award. He made such ample use of metaphor I was hardly sure whether it was a florid depiction of fraying sanity, or if he was describing actual schizophrenic hallucinations. I bookmarked the page with my thumb and partly closed it to compare the width of the stack of pages on either side. There were a greater number of pages yet to come. The mental ward chapters would be a long slog — ten year’s worth. I feared I would be questioning _my own_ sanity by the time I was through. Already I had begun to see the machinery of the world from his point of view — a combine of forces that tore the humanity from anyone who didn’t fit the mold.

It reminded me of high school, of my parents, and myself.

It drew me in so deeply that I could no longer feel the cushions propped behind my back, or see the posters on my wall, or hear the door when it began to knock. Slowly I became aware that this muffled rapping noise was not part of the story. Reality hit like a cold blast of air as I emerged from the cocoon of the novel. The tapping at the door rang out loud and clear.

A chill ran through my blood before I could move to answer it. Who would be visiting so late? My roommate wouldn’t knock, I didn’t order pizza, and my friends wouldn’t stop by unannounced. So who was out there, entreating entrance when I was all alone? My ex-sorority? My sisters _despised_ me for leaving, enough to shun me publicly and talk trash behind my back. I never thought my life was in danger… but they could have killed Julie, and were furious that I had refused to push a drunk teenager out of a moving car. Was it so crazy to think they had upped the ante to outright murder?

No. I closed my eyes and breathed. I was not going to let fear control me. _It’s just the RA. Or my roommate forgot her keys. Or it’s some late visitor coming to check on me._ Sarah was motherly enough to stop by and make sure my concussion was healing up.  

“Sorry, just a second. I was, uh… taking a nap,” I called out, embarrassed by my long hesitation.

I threw open the door. There stood Natalie Simon.

She looked the same as she did the last time I’d seen her, when we co-captained Mountain Lake High School’s spirit squad. Her long red hair still shone in glittering hues of copper and gold under the fluorescent lamps of the hallway, and her lips were still colored that deep autumn shade to match. She was the Rose Red to my Snow White — my balance. Her girl-next-door congeniality brought recruits to our team, and I whipped them into shape with my ruthless ambition.

We applied to Pendleton together senior year, planning to continue our reign… until I pushed our balance over the edge. I did something too depraved for her to pull me back. It almost ruined her life. Every time she looked at me, she relived that night, wondering what she could have done differently. She realized that there _was no balance_. I was a bad influence, and she didn’t need me. We both went to Pendleton, but we hadn’t spoken in three years. She never forgave me for what I did.

Yet here she was at my door, three years later, as if no time had passed at all, and my first instinct was to hug her. _She’s finally ready to put the past behind us._

Before I could spread my arms to welcome her in, Natalie croaked, “What… the fuck… did you do, Michelle?”

“Nice to see you, too, Nat. No warm greeting?”

“ _Warm greeting?_ That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Well fine, you got my attention!” Her eyes looked haunted, and my stomach began to swim with apprehension.

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought it was an accident, three years ago, I thought you understood when I told you to stay out of my life, but you just can’t stand not being the center of everyone’s attention, can you? You’re sick. You're… you’re just sick, aren’t you? _What did you do?_ ”

“To who?”

“To _Brenda!_ ” she screamed, forcing her way into the room. I had never seen the Natalie so enraged. Her hair flew like sparks off heated metal as she paced through the small dorm room, furiously ripping open drawers and closets as if searching for evidence. I pinned myself against a wall, helplessly watching her fling my clothes and papers to the floor.

Natalie used to be such a pushover. Under normal circumstances, I would have put her in her place for trashing my room, but now my legs wobbled and my vision flickered. Fear that I was going to die crippled me so intensely, all I could manage was to whimper, “Why are you doing this?”

“She was my best friend!”

“You mean… Brenda? _Oh my god_. Did she say anything to you? Do you know why she tried to kill me?”

“Maybe because you deserve it!” she roared, turning on her heel to face me. My gut clenched. I fumbled for my pocket but the pepper spray was in my coat in the closet. If she was going to attack me, I only had one weapon to fight back with:

“Fuck you, Nat! You were there, too!”

“Yeah, and giving you the keys was the worst mistake of my life.”

“So what, are you here to finish me off? Is that…” It dawned on me at last, “Is that why Brenda tried to cut my head off? You put her up to it?”

“You know I never told anybody what happened. I just wanted to leave it behind me. But you could never let go, could you? Brenda was my first best friend since _you,_ and you couldn’t stand it. You were jealous that I moved on, so you killed her.”

The accusation rang in my ears, cold and stinging. “Why the hell would I be jealous of a… a psycho… judgmental… drama-queen ginger like you?”

We regarded each other with sharp suspicion like two cowboys in a quick-draw, waiting for the other to reach for their holster. Finally, Natalie broke the silence with razor-edged words.

“Don’t expect me to buy that this was a coincidence. I’m not as gullible as the newspaper. Brenda would never hurt anybody, but you would. If I see you anywhere near me or my friends… I will expose you for the monster you are. I’ll tell everybody exactly what you did.”

Every hair on the back of my neck was standing on end when the girl who used to wear banana curls and braces, who used to do my nails and trade fashion magazines with me, stalked out of my room and slammed the door.

I looked over the wreckage left in her wake. Piles of clothing and pages ripped from binders were strewn over the linoleum tile floor. _What was she hoping to find? A confession?_ The clock patiently ticked by on the wall, counting the seconds, and the minutes until my muscles unfroze and could move again. I scooped up the half-finished essays and worksheets, tapped them into a neat stack, and replaced them in their drawers. Each piece of laundry was folded back into the closet until all evidence anything had happened was erased.

I tried to return to my book, but my eyes wouldn’t focus on the words. Getting any homework done was an equally fruitless measure. I could have joined my roommate at TJ’s, but the thought of a crowd now filled me with dread. Nobody would have believed Michelle Mancini capable of shrinking from a party. Being surrounded by people always put me at ease, but now anyone could be hiding a dagger, or a vial of poison. 

There was one place I knew — one place that was quiet, and safe from danger. One person whom I could trust. I only hoped the sight of my face didn’t exhume for him as many ill memories as it did for my former friend.

****

Mascara was streaking down my face in wet rivulets by the time I pulled in to the deserted station, long after dark. The lights were off, and everything was still and silent. Nobody was around this late. It was closed. I dug my nails into the steering wheel and smacked my forehead against it. _Stupid._ Then a light flickered on behind the garage. He must have heard my engine.

As soon as he saw me, he knew something was wrong, and was beside the car in an instant. I leaped out the door and threw myself against him. Every muscle in his body tensed up, but as I sobbed, he pulled me into an awkward hug, patting my back. Though he himself was often strained and frazzled, a he put me at ease just with his nearness. It wasn’t just that he had saved my life. He didn’t know my reputation. He didn’t have any expectations of me, and I didn’t have to pretend anything. He was the only one who could see me cry.

The September night blew a chilly breeze through my cardigan. The garage was locked up for the night, so he invited me in to his apartment — a small little adjunct behind the garage proper — for tea. I knew exactly how shady that sounded, but there were no witnesses to report on our late-night rendezvous, and if he _was_ planning to spike my drink with Madeira, I was too low to give a damn.

He ushered me inside, put a kettle on the stove, and we sat together at his small, round kitchen table.

“W-wh-what… brings you b-back? Good to… s-see you again,” he smiled nervously.

“Is it?” I replied darkly. “I know why I like to see you, I mean, you saved me. But I must just be a reminder to you…”

“No… I’m always glad to… sss-see a… f-fff — friendly face.”

“Oh please, you’re like, a local hero now. I’m sure you have no shortage of… faces.”

He went silent, and got up to check on the tea, gathering a pair of mugs from the cupboard. I should have known he was incapable of anything but gentlemanly behavior. We were really just having tea; no pretense.

“C-c-chamomile…  oh-okay?”

“Sure.”

I warmed my hands on the ceramic, and inhaled the nepenthe of floral steam. It banished the troubles from my mind and made me forget why I had come, until Bill sat across from me, paternal concern etched over his face.

“D-d-did something… h-happen?” His sea-blue eyes probed me, filled with dismay at whatever had sent me running here in tears.

The story welled up with more tears as I relived the panic and rejection. I told him about Natalie, and the accusations she flung — though I conveniently skipped over the secret of _why_ she believed me capable of murder. I dared not confess sins too evil for him to forgive.

“She thinks it was my fault Brenda died… that I set it up somehow as revenge. But I didn’t even know they were friends.” I took a sip, and coughed as the honeyed liquid caught in my closed throat. “Maybe it _is_ my fault. Maybe I’m cursed.”

“I p-pulled the… t-trigger. It’s m-my fault, n-n-not yours. You sh-shouldn’t get blamed, too…”

My misty eyes unburied themselves from self-pity for a moment. “Too? Has someone come after you? The Bateses?”

He nodded bleakly. “They c-call… every day to… rrr-r-remind me I mm-mm-murdered their daughter. Brenda had a lot of f-f-friends. Folks are a-angry, or afraid to c-c-come around here. Sh-shooting a girl your age d-d-doesn’t l-look good.”

“Bill… I’m sorry. If I never stopped here, this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

“If you d-didn’t stop, y… you could be dead.”

“Maybe it would’ve been been better that way.”

He slammed his mug down with alarming force, spilling hot tea on the table. “No! Y-y-you don’t mean that. Tell me, tell me you d-d-ddon’t mean that.”

I was so taken aback by his outburst, I held my mug out in front of me like a shield. His round owl-eyes looked about at the destruction he’d caused and shrank back into normal human eyes. A pink blush tinted his cheeks as he wiped up spilled tea with a napkin. “Ss-s-sorry…”

“I don’t know. I don’t wanna die, I mean, but maybe I deserved to. Whatever Brenda was doing in my back seat, she probably had a good motive. You don’t know me, Bill,” I let the words drip heavily. “I’m not a nice person. I might have stolen her boyfriend, or rejected her rush, or maybe Natalie told her… what a sadistic teenager I was. If I died, at least I wouldn’t have forced you to—”

“—You d-d-didn’t force nothing! Th-th-there was no other w-way. One of you was g-g-g-gonna die, and I… I chose the one _not_ mm-m-murdering the other. Whatever y-you think you’ve done… you d-don’t deserve to be killed. D… d-don’t tell yourself that. I… I’m glad I saved you… I’d d-do it again… Especially now that I’ve met you, kiddo. It r-r-really was good to… to see you today.”

Bill had no way to fully grasp what I did or did not deserve, but it was endearing how adamant he was that my life was worthwhile. He seemed unconditionally on my side, which flooded me with a sensation as warming as the tea he poured. Bill was right; despite the police chief’s analysis that it was a prank, Brenda wasn’t about to take off her hood and laugh, “April fools!” She was about to slice into me. I, at least, was not a murderer. If Bill believed my life was worth saving, then I would do my best not to disappoint him.

He didn’t know about the terrible things I’d done, so I could build a new reputation from scratch with him. When I graduated, and moved to New York, that new me could be the real me. If I didn’t take another axe to the head from a disgruntled sorority sister, or a red-headed former cheerleader, then I was going to make the best of the second chance at life he had given me. I could be a better person.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle and Bill hang out

After that night, I vowed to visit Bill as often as possible. There was a Full Serve Suny's miles closer to campus, but I refused to fill up my tank anywhere but his station. Fortunately, my gas-guzzler needed filling every couple of days — especially when I volunteered, with uncharacteristic generosity, to taxi my friends and acquaintances all over town. So it was Tuesday that I first reunited with him, and it was Saturday, after taking Sarah and Julie shopping, that I came back.

He heard my engine approaching and was coming out of the garage to greet me, wiping the soot from his hands with a rag, but I honked a few times anyway to be brat. He crossed his arms in mock-sternness before cracking into a smile. As soon as that sunbeam lit up his face, the worry I carried like a textbook-stuffed backpack slipped away. He didn't know when, or if, I was going to come back, and he was happy — happier than most people were to see me. He made me feel welcome in the sanctuary of his cluttered little station.

“Hey, I actually need gas this time,” I called out, waving my card. After I paid and parked, we sat out in the sun on a bench in front of his workshop.

For him, the station was less of a sanctuary than it once was. His office (if the disorderly crush of automotive parts and junk could be considered an office on the sole virtue of having a phone and a cash register) had finally been released from behind crime scene tape, and he replaced the shattered window, but the memories could no more be expunged than the lingering russet stain soaked deep into the concrete. He didn't need to explain why he'd set up a bench outside just as the days were beginning to grow shorter and cooler. I didn't want to go in there, either.

This afternoon, though, was balmy enough that I didn't need a jacket, and my thin leggings were more than enough insulation.

He barely had a chance to stammer out a preliminary, “How are you?” when the phone's ring sliced through the late-summer air from the dreaded room. His hands shook at his sides as he excused himself to answer it, and they shook even worse, minutes later, when he staggered back out.

He sank down on the wood slats beside me, face ghostly pale.

“The Bates?” I guessed, sympathetically.

“The P.I., I thh… think.” he muttered.

“You don't know? Don't the cops have to tell you, if you ask who's calling?”

He shook his head. “P-p-private investigator… n-not a cop. I keep getting strange calls… f-fishing for in-f-f-f — information.”

“I can't believe those dicks are actually serious about finding dirt on you. Well, good luck,” I scoffed. “They're not going to find any. Except for, y'know, the literal,” I plucked at his flannel sleeve, erupting a miniature puff of volcanic ash. He pressed his lips together, contemplating me with wonder. My unquestioning trust of his character was a full reversal from when I thought he was a serial killer. Now that I knew him, I was certain if there was anything remotely resembling dirt in his history, it would be a ticket for jaywalking — or trespassing on private property to rescue a kitten. I squared my vision on a little pebble near my shoe, and idly kicked it. _But what if this stupid P.I. digs into_ my _past?_

 

****

 

The new window Bill had installed was smashed through with a rock by the following morning, when I decided to drop by again. I had my excuse for being back so soon all lined up — a desperate need for wiper fluid before Monday. The hour was early yet for my taste, but Bill was already up, and so furiously engaged in scrubbing at the garage windows with a soapy brush that he didn't hear me pull in. When I gave my customary honk, he jumped, spilling the bucket over, and swore.

He spun to see who was there, breathing hard and shuddering. I saw the look in his red-rimmed eyes, and hurried from the car immediately.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Words came harder than usual for him this morning, because he didn't want to repeat what had occurred. Slowly, and with difficulty, he recounted waking up before dawn to the sound of shattering glass and a car tearing out of the driveway. The words “killer” were still dripping in fresh white spray paint down his garage door. He'd been desperately trying to wash it off ever since, barely holding himself together — partly in embarrassment that a customer would see what was written, and partly because he feared it was true.

I couldn't help it, seeing him pink-faced and distraught with self-doubt. I snatched him up in a hug and squeezed as hard as my arms could muster. Hugging Bill was like hugging a tree — stiff, and not very reciprocating, but I knew he appreciated the love.

“Here,” I produced a small bottle of nail polish remover, “I always keep it in my purse for emergencies. It works on almost everything, you know.”

“Thanks,” he sniffled, “but y… you don't ha… have to…”

“Shut up, I'm going to help you,” I insisted. Without waiting for any further argument, I found a dried-on paint spot that wasn't coming off with soap and water, and started up dabbing at it with acetone on a cotton pad. Realizing there was no talking me out of something I'd set my mind on doing, he went back to his soap bucket and joined me. He scrubbed the big parts that were not fully set, and I dissolved away the more stubborn details.

“So, ah… h-h-how are you coming on thhh-the c-c-Combine?” he asked between strokes of the sudsy brush. “Did you g-get to the part where Chief breaks the —”

“Ah! No! Shhh!” I stuck out my elbow and jabbed him, nearly dropping the bottle. “Don't spoil the ending!”

He played along, pretending the blow wounded him (as if could put a dent in those toned arms even if I tried). The tease backfired as he theatrically recoiled, forgetting the lathering brush in his hand, and accidentally splashing bubbles onto his nose. I cracked up. He blew the foam off with a loud, _“pffffft”_ and cackled high and nasally like a wicked witch from a movie. His laugh was jarring, but delightful — like everything else about him.

“Ss-s-so you like it?” he said, drying his nose on his sleeve. “G-good!”

“Yeah! Your friend is a great writer. I'm a little jealous, actually. I always dreamed I'd be an author, too, one day, you know? Writing a novel sounded like the easiest way to get famous, and live in a New York City high-rise… But honestly? My life is boring compared to what your friend lived through. I don't have the personal drama to write something so edgy.”

“…You d-don't want… Chief's life just to… to wr-write a n… novel,” he squinted hard at the brush bristles in his hand.

“I guess,” I sulked. “If I can't suffer and be complex for art, I can always write trashy paperbacks for middle-aged moms who hate their husbands. That's more up my alley. Zero depth required.”

“I'd r-rather be happy than… d-deep,” he said with a soft, paternal smile. With a sudden thought, he raised his brow helpfully. “You _w-were_ almost… k-killed last week.”

I beamed instantly. “You're right! That was super traumatic — I should write that for my midterm project! ' _The Michelle Mancini Story_ ,'” I said in a television-announcer voice. “It'll be a total hit for the hype alone, and the teacher wouldn't even think about flunking me. They could turn it into a Lifetime movie. ' _The harrowing tale of survival, told from her side for the first time_.' Do you think a network might really buy the manuscript? I could cash in on this.”

Bill just folded his arms, shaking his head ever-so-slightly at me as I twittered excitedly about my plans.

“Next time I come over, I'll bring a draft. You can tell me if I'm portraying you fairly.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Tell L… Lifetime I want… B-B-Billy Drago to play me…”

 

****

 

It took almost an hour, and wrecked my manicure, but toiling away on paint removal was surprisingly not awful. Manual labor wasn't my style, but it made me feel useful, and side-by-side with him, the time whiled away pleasantly. By the time our clean-up was through, it was as if the vandal had never been there — except for the plastic tarp over the window. Every time the wind whipped it, Bill flinched with the reminder.

I wished that I could pretend I didn't understand how anybody could do that to him — but I did. I had been moments from _spraying mace_ in his eyes the night he tried to rescue me, because he looked scary and he talked weird. Those sensitive blue eyes were the only obvious clue to the dove-like soul beneath a wolfish exterior. His clothes were always dirty, and his hair stringy and uncombed. He spent all day tinkering with car parts without stopping to groom. With only appearances to judge on, an outsider would have an easy time believing he was the murderer, and not Brenda.

Not only was his appearance discomfiting, he never knew how to carry himself around people, either. Apart from a handful of approved acquaintances with whom he could let his guard down, he entered every interaction as if he were unwelcome — as if drivers stopping for gas might take one look at him and scream, “Who are you? You don't belong here!”

Which, incidentally, was not far from what sometimes happened.

Our triumph over the garage door was cut short by the day's first customer pulling up to the pumps. I could tell she wasn't an established client by the sharp intake of breath he took as he steeled himself, and approached the car with the trepidation of a mouse to a cat. He smiled too broadly and stared too directly at the middle-aged woman behind the wheel, trying too hard to appear friendly and far overshooting the “natural conversation” mark. He could have had the charm of Leonardo DiCaprio in _Titanic_ and it probably wouldn't have mattered — as soon as he spoke in his broken way, attempting to make some cursory pleasantries, the woman's eyes fell to her lap, and her lips curled into an uncomfortable grimace. The moment he was finished, she pushed her credit card out the window and asked for “Ten dollars of regular” in the most contemptuous tone possible for so simple a request — slow and deliberate, as if he might be too dull to understand.

He nodded silently in reply, breaking off eye-contact as he fumbled for the card. His counterfeit self-assurance flaked off like a cheap veneer, leaving him exposed. The plastic sheet cracked in a gust of wind.

Switching from forced-confidence to reticence only made things worse. As he turned to fill her tank, the woman's eyes narrowed and followed his movements suspiciously, to confirm that was _all_ he was doing. His sudden nervousness gave her the impression that he had something to hide, when the bitter irony was, he was only nervous about making a bad impression. When Bill dashed into the office to run the transaction, his head was bowed so low he wouldn't even look up at me for encouragement. I sneered at the woman in her car. She was pivoting her head about like a prairie dog, taking note of each broken-down vehicle and scowling as if it were verification of the nefarious secrets she had concluded must exist. Then she swiveled toward me, and noticed a vaguely-upper-class girl sitting on a bench staring back, red lips curled in disdain at _her_. Her eyes went wide, and quickly returned to focus on the air above her steering wheel.

_Tch, won't even try a staring contest?_ I thought, wickedly. _Not so keen now that there's someone to stick up for the guy?_ I wondered if my presence confused her, and the opinion she already formed of this place. I was my parents' pampered daughter, carrying with me the ambiance of crystal chandeliers and cocktail parties — and I gave this dump my stamp of approval. “Hi, I'm Michelle Mancini, a fashionable upper-middle-class student. I've been here over three times and have not been murdered once, not even slightly. It's safe here, and completely unnecessary to be a dick to the owner.”

I snapped out of my public-access-television-style endorsement fantasy as Bill emerged from the office, card in hand, to finish up and send the woman on her way. Much to his amazement, and to my deeply rolled eyes, she was magnitudes more courteous _now that she knew someone was watching_.

He returned to the bench, blowing air through his lips in relief that the difficult encounter was behind him.

“What a bitch,” I spat, as her car turned out onto the road. “I could've slapped her! Are people always that shitty?”

He froze uncomfortably in the headlights of my vitriol. “I, uh… n-no. Sh-she wasn't… um… wasn't that bad…”

A pang of guilt made me look away. Did he remember that I had been worse? Had he heard me mutter, “freak” behind his back? At least I wasn't condescending to his face.

“I didn't like the way she looked at you,” I said in a dry, low growl. “She was treating you like you were stupid, you know.”

He let out a sharp sigh, and frowned. “I-I _know_ wh-what she was doing.” I looked up to find his blazing eyes a touch irritated with me. _Of course he wasn't oblivious. Now who's treating him like a dimwit_. He slouched down beside me, and spoke more softly. “Nah, th-they're not all like that. S… some are. I'm used to it.”

 

****

 

The next day, I had a two hour lunch break between classes. Normally, I would meet up with Julie, Sarah, and Mark, but I had spent all night burning through the last chapters of The Combine, and I was in a rush to tell Bill about it, so we could finally discuss. I brought the dog-eared first edition and a revoltingly cheap pizza from the cafeteria, and hurried over to his gas station. We chatted the entire time, engrossed in concepts that were far above my head about the nature of sanity, and the dignity of the human spirit. I could at least comment on the literary devices, and happily pointed out a hidden motif that Bill had missed.

Then the next day for lunch, I brought one of my favorite books to lend him, and cafeteria cheeseburgers. He acted like the food was some big favor, which made me wonder if he lived off crappy frozen dinners. So I started showing up nearly every day I had a free lunch period. Each time my engine sounded in his driveway his eyes lit up with delight, and he wiped the soot from his hands to sit with me, and eat, and talk.

Literature piqued his interest. After we had exhausted analyzing and pondering every chapter of The Combine, he lent me another book, and we dissected the one I gave him the previous week. We became a two-person book club. More than once I was late to class because we had gotten caught up for hours talking metaphors and imagery in the greats like Shakespeare, Twain, and Stephen King (though when I presented him a copy of The Shining, he refused, abashedly explaining that horror stories gave him nightmares).

He was even happy to discuss my English major and personal writing aspirations. He helped me edit some assignments, and I found he had an incredible talent. Bill had a heightened awareness of words. He intimately knew which would snag on his tongue, and how to avoid them. He knew which would flow more easily, and which combination would reach the end of a sentence faster. This careful navigation of his own speech rippled outward to a poet's mastery of language as a whole. I was in awe. As a fluid speaker, I struggled to convey meaning succinctly — tending amble along the most tortuous route toward significance. My writing was like a clumsy search for the light switch in a dark room. Though he'd dropped out of college, his advice always got me better grades.

Bill felt like my special secret — my diamond in the rough. My parents and my friends had always looked down on the uneducated, uncultured working class, but now I found — with a thrill of defiance — everything they believed was wrong. I started to forget what a mismatched pair we were, eating lunch on a bench surrounded by broken-down cars. I started to forget we were never meant to associate so closely — to become friends.

My other friends wouldn't forget, though.

 

****

 

“You never eat lunch with us anymore, what gives?” Julie whined.

“Yeah,” Mark agreed, adding, “I know the dude saved you from some maniac or whatever, but come on. Wasn't one thank you enough? Hanging out there all the time… people are going to talk. Put it behind you already.”

They had surrounded me, intervention-style, on the green after class one afternoon, before I had the chance to slip off campus to… apparently they knew where.

Sarah, ever the voice of reason, shushed Mark with a scowl. “Michelle can deal with her trauma in her own way.” Then she turned to me with a sympathetic frown, “But really hon, you _are_ wasting a lot of gas money driving out there to re-live this horrible thing that happened to you. We've all noticed you acting distant. Have you considered seeing a therapist? The school offers free counseling.”

“Therapy? I'm just… talking with a new friend over lunch.”

“Micheeeelle.” Julie groaned dramatically, stalked toward me with hands outstretched, and squished my cheeks together. “Listen to what is coming out your face-hole. You are ditching your real friends for a backwoods grandpa. That's weird.” She shook my head into nodding along. “Stop. Being. Weird. We miss you. You can't be friends with someone twice your age, anyway. I bet he's all, ' _kids these days and their hippie-hop music_ ,' right?”

She released me to carry on her impersonation, wagging a finger at the air and rambling, “back in my day,” to Sarah. I unpuckered my lips, and massaged my face.

“It's not even safe to go there alone,” Mark insinuated. “I heard Brenda's not the first girl he's killed. They say he hides the bodies in the gasoline storage tanks underground, and every time you fill up gas there, you're getting a little bit of their dissolving flesh!”

Julie squelched and stuck out her tongue in disgust, but Sarah, unconvinced, rolled her eyes.

“ _Come on_. Where'd you hear that one, Parker's gossip show? You know they only let him on the radio because no one else wants to do it, right?”

It didn't matter if I was right, I was fighting a losing battle. No matter what I said, my friends would still think that Bill was weird, and they would think that I was crazy for wanting to have lunch with him instead of them.

If they only knew him, they might understand, but there was no way I could arrange a meeting. They would only embarrass me, and insult him. They would call his business a trash heap. Julie wouldn't hold back mocking him to his face, and Mark might chuck another rock right through his window. He would be cowering from them, but I couldn't stand up for him without taking his side over theirs — and I couldn't do that. They were still my friends. I didn't want to lose them. No, it was always better to keep social circles separate.

The less they knew, the better.

So, I nodded to Mark, Julie, and Sarah, and folded to their intervention. “You're right, guys,” I sniffled, and wiped my dry eyes with my wrist. I told them I had to see a therapist — I was so _traumatized_ , and _brave_ , after all. They would have to excuse my odd behavior, since I had been through _so much_. They conceded that, patting me on the back.

I smiled. Now whenever I wanted to see Bill, I could say I was at my therapist. It was barely even a lie.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it a date?

“The red of my lipstick is indistinguishable from the blood freed from my veins, as it trickles down the…”

 _No._ I crossed out the melodramatic bullshit I had written, and penned, “The dark-cloaked figure follows each night; follows me in every shadow, and the eyes of friends I used to trust…” _No. This is dreck_ , I thought, balling the entire paper and tossing it into the waste bin. _Do real writers even crumple their drafts like this, or is that just on TV? Great — everything I do is a cliché._

The ring of the telephone cut the air, mercifully ending the flood of trite garbage coming out of my pen, that had to be ready to hand in by Wednesday's poetry class. I sighed in welcome relief, but quickly a pang of anxiety struck — what if it was Natalie, or a sorority sister calling? Girls I used to know were watching me as I walked to classes, and part of me was sure it was only a matter of time before that armistice broke.

My roommate was buried deep in a textbook on her side of the room, so I reached for the receiver.

“Hello?” A relieved whoosh of breath came through the speaker, and my suspense broke into a grin. _He was worried my roommate might pick up_. I already knew whose charmingly sheepish voice I was about to hear.

“H-h-hi…”

“Hey,” I lilted, careful not to use his name in case she _was_ listening.

“D…” there was a long, uncomfortable pause in which he swallowed several times. “Dah…” I leaned closer in anticipation. “Do you w-want to hah — h-have dinner with me?”

My heart erupted like fluttering confetti over a crowd of raving dancers. _A date? Does he mean a date? Oh no_. I should have known this would happen. It did every time I gave a man too much attention — but he was twice my age. Didn't he know better? There was absolutely no chance. What would my parents say if I brought home a boyfriend _their age_ , who couldn't so much as say “hello” without practically asphyxiating? Would I tell them, “Thanks for paying my tuition; I'm gonna go live in a run-down gas station after graduation.”? They would disown me.

It was my fault for giving him the wrong idea. I couldn't blame him for mistaking all those platonic lunches for a signal of interest. I wanted to see him again soon, anyway. I would just have to let him down gently, so we could still be friends. I would simply have to be clear that it was not a date.

“Yes,” I chirped.

****

I felt hot, and there was a tension in my stomach as I drove to the restaurant. I wondered, as I parked, if I was running a fever — if I should cancel. I wandered up to the front of the small, blue, rustic bistro, dizzy enough that I knew once I found Bill, I would have to tell him about my mystery illness and give him a rain check. When I caught a glimpse of him through the doorway, the fever bloomed across my cheeks.

_Oh._

He cleaned up so nicely, I barely recognized him. His wild hair that usually curled to his shoulders was slicked back, like smooth dark steel, and tied neatly at the nape of his neck. The usual flannel and overalls were replaced with a clean jacket and tie which, judging from the narrow lapel and pin-striping, must have been bought in the 80's. The fit was just slightly too small, as if he had been a decade or two younger the last time he had occasion to wear it. It didn't look bad; it took my keen eye for changing styles to notice that it was old — men's formal wear changed so little. In fact, he looked better than I had ever seen him. He looked handsome.

For once, I felt absolutely frumpy by comparison. I'd only worn jeans and a t-shirt, because this was _not_ supposed to be a date. _Was it?_ Was I nervous?

He was standing alone in the waiting area, squirming uncomfortably and casting dodgy glances at the dinner crowds passing through the door, but he hadn't seen me yet. When another diner walked by, he pressed himself against the wall to get out of their way, trying to melt into the wallpaper. It was as if he hadn't been out in a crowd since the suit was new. When they passed, he released a held breath, un-flattened from the wall, and craned his neck around again, seeking — and lit up as he finally caught sight of me. A funny feeling tingled like pop rocks in my chest. Maybe I didn't have to tell him _right_ away that this wasn't a date.

He looked at first relieved, and then alarmed that I had shown up. His he stepped forward to greet me, lips pressed tightly together, then pulled back before making contact, then shook my hand like we were having a business meeting.

“Hey Bill, nice place. I don't think I've been here before.”

He tried to smile, but grimaced instead, and made a grunting affirmative noise. He couldn't manage to eke out a word to me, or to the hostess who brought us to our seats. He looked like a rabbit frozen in place, but ready to bolt.

Candlelight flickered and glowed, casting a serene, dim atmosphere to the restaurant. I found myself having a hard time looking at the menu; my gaze continually wandered over to Bill, whose face was buried nervously in his. I had never noticed how handsome he was. His eyes were always unavoidable, since the first stormy night, when he had frightened me with his long gaze. They were dazzling blue, with diamond glints, and such complexity it would take a poet to describe them with any justice. Without a coat of engine grease disguising him, the rest of his countenance was equally fine-featured and delicate. His nose was straight as a line drawn by ruler, which gave his slender face the impression of perfection. His jawline was crisp, and made a nearly perfect right angle below his ear.

The waitress arrived behind me, shocking me from my train of thought. I gave a yelp.

“Oh! I'm sorry miss,” she apologized.

 _Shit. I forgot to pick a meal_ , I thought, outwardly faking a smile, and hoping Bill would go first. He glanced at the menu and began stammering something out slowly, while my eyes raced down the entrées for anything that sounded good. It took me a moment, but by the time I decided on the house sirloin, Bill was still struggling to get his order out, and the waitress was tapping her foot impatiently.

“Do you want to just point at it on the menu?” she interrupted. Bill turned red.

If my eyes could shoot daggers, they'd have stabbed that waitress in the throat. She didn't notice until she turned to take my order, and found me glaring like a gremlin after midnight. Nostrils flaring, I read my order in a stiff voice, while she scribbled it down.

“Anything else?”

An unnaturally pleasant smile seeped over my face. “Very nice effort on your makeup. It must be so difficult to hide circles that dark, but I can barely tell.” I kept smiling, and watched her face change from confusion, to realization, to embarrassment. She snatched up her note pad and scurried away.

Bill leaned in across the table. “Yuh… you didn't have t-t-to say that…”

“She had it coming,” I spat. I realized I'd become fiercely protective of this man. That waitress made him look _ashamed_ , and I'd punch the next person who made him make that face. “Asking you to point at the menu, like a child. I swear —”

“It's my… f-fault,” he blurted. “Sss-sorry I c-can't… talk right…”

My eyes went wide. “Why would _you apologize_? Don't be sorry!” I frowned, the agitation in my voice slowly waning. “Bill… never be sorry.”

He stared back at me with a curious expression on his face, and his eyes lingered there a little too long. This time, it didn't bother me at all. I hoped he would never have to look away. His hand lay across the table, tempting me to squeeze it.

“You know, I barely noticed it, but… I think you've been stuttering less with me. You used to be as bad as you were with that dumb waitress, but you haven't gotten nearly as stuck with me in a long time.”

His eyes caught the candlelight, corners of them wrinkling as his cheeks lifted. “I-I-I… guess I'm not as… scared of you anymore.”

I squealed with laughter. “You were afraid of me?”

“You did… a-a-almost mace me.” He quirked a brow.

“ _Touché_.”

“The more I worry a-about not being able to… to talk, the wo-worse it gets. T-th-that's irony.”

“Can't you just… not worry about it, then?” I offered.

“ _Y-you_ try!” He said it with a good humored grin, but his exasperation was real. How many times had he heard that advice?

What could I do for this sweet, wonderful man? How could I fix him? Forty years of impatient waitresses, and snobby college kids, and he was _exhausted_. That waitress who acted like Bill was taking forever to order couldn't see how badly he was trying to shorten up his phrasing, desperate to _get out of the way_. That was how he saw himself — in the way. He was so used to being treated like he was taking up everybody's time, he really believed it. That was something I'd have to work on with him. People could wait. They always waited for _me_ , and it's not like I ever had anything important to contribute. He didn't have to apologize, or resign to pointing, or writing on a notepad. He could take as long as he needed, and people could just wait… or they'd deal with me.

We kept talking, all through dinner, about Edgar Allan Poe — another author Bill refused to read after dark — whom I had fallen for since enrolling in poetry class. We doggedly avoided the subjects of Bill's ongoing harassment over Brenda's death, and whether or not this was a date. He never made any romantic overtures, even though I began to hope that he would. I noticed he _was_ speaking easier; especially in contrast to his attacks of nervousness when the waitress came back to check on us. I let Bill do all the talking, and my eyes dared her to give him any trouble. She probably spit in my food, but at the least, she took care to be more polite.

Our table candle burned low, dripping wax down the sides of its glass container, and I shoved the last morsel of steak into my full stomach. He insisted on tipping the waitress, despite my protests. As we exited into the cool night air of the parking lot, we paused, each sizing the other up uneasily. _Was_ this a date? The way in which we parted would determine that. With a kiss? Or another formal handshake, as friends? Bill broke the silence first.

“Th-thanks for letting me… m… make up for some of those l-lunches, kiddo.”

_Oh. Was that all this was? Quid pro quo?_

“Thank _you,_ this was great. We should do it again,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed he'd called me kid.

We faced each other, not sure what to do next. Shake hands? Hug? Slink away and never look back? If I were to kiss those lips, what would it be like? Would they feel different, taste different from the young men I had been with? Would he pull away? Bill clutched his arm in the opposite hand, and glanced toward his car. “ _Oh come here_ ,” I grunted, and pulled him into a hug. He drew in a sharp breath. Slowly releasing it, he let his hands close around my back.

“I'll see you around,” I smiled, breaking away. I could feel his blue eyes on my back as I walked to my SUV. I double-checked the back seat and trunk, as I always did since the incident, and put on some loud music as I drove back to school. I still had no idea whether that was just dinner, or something more. I didn't know what I would tell my roommate if she asked me where I'd been, or why I was blushing. But I finally understood one thing:

I was in love with an older man.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle gets assaulted at a bar

_Van Gogh painted your eyes, oil on canvas,  
_ _Each stroke vibrant with pain;  
_ _Or, by nature they were grown:  
_ _A thousand woven tendrils,  
_ _Reaching inward toward an endless inky well.  
_ _You are the accretion disk of a black hole,  
_ _As nebulae and star dust swirl down and downward to be consumed,  
_ _Down and downward into the darkness.  
_ _You are a maelstrom upon the sea,  
_ _Seafoam and brine leap from your eyes until I am soaking;  
_ _But I am unafraid to drown._

My poetry professor handed back “Blue Irises” to me with an A minus marked on it. “Yes!” I pumped my fist. Bill's eyes inspired me to surpass my usual B and C grades, searching for a way to describe their indescribable blue — though nobody could know he was my muse. Nobody could know how much I idolized a middle-aged gas station owner. Not even him. He didn't help me edit this assignment, though I desperately wanted to show it off and hear him say, “W-wow! Th-th-that's amazing!” or something. He might realize it was about him. What if it made him uncomfortable?

What if our date wasn't a date at all?

I had just turned twenty-one years old; barely old enough to drink. Once upon a time I thought I could have anyone I wanted, but now I was old enough to know that I was too young to get taken seriously by a mature man. What would he want with a girl my age?

Sex, of course.

I had always relied on my pretty face, and lean, athletic body to get what I wanted from empty-headed jocks. If Bill were some perverted old lecher looking to “bang a co-ed,” it would be easy to work my usual charms on him. Most of my relationships in high school and college were just “hook-ups.” I dated guys with trust funds, because I came from a wealthy family. I was the cheer captain, so I'd date the football captain. I was in an exclusive sorority; I'd date a brother from a prestigious fraternity. We'd wear each other around like jewelry for awhile, and then move on. But Bill wasn't like that, and it made me nervous.

Bill wasn't some some prize I could win by flashing daddy's credit card and a bit of cleavage. He was a man of substance. He would want someone with a kind heart, like his, and wit to match. Intangible virtues were the ones that would win him over; he would never want a shallow girl like me. Then there was the sheer difference in our age that made romance socially frowned upon. Bill was too _moral_ to be harboring prurient thoughts about me. He probably thought of me like a daughter.

The “date” was just dinner between friends.

He was only nervous because he's a shut-in, and worried about us being recognized from the news. He only dressed up in that suit to be formal. Polite. It was just the two of us together because he doesn't have anyone else. He didn't do anything to suggest more-than-platonic interest. _Hell, a guy born in the 50's who was never married? He's probably gay_.

Yet for all my denial, the universe was resolute on shoving us together.

*****

Julie, Mark, and Sarah were piled in the dad-mobile as I drove us to the bar for Thirsty Thursday. The girls belted Celine Dion in the backseat with the radio — so screechy and off-key I jokingly wished there was still an axe murderer hiding back there. Mark, in the passenger seat, kept insisting I hang out with them Friday night, too. _Two days without seeing Bill? What if something happens to him?_ I already had to stop seeing him at lunch to avoid suspicion, and there were only so many therapy sessions I could fake per week. My excuses to avoid my friends and sneak over to the gas station were whittling away.

An electronic chime partially covered up Julie's cracking voice as she wailed about her heart going on. CHECK ENGINE glowed yellow on the dashboard. I tried to hide my relief from Mark's probing gaze.

“Whoops. Guess I can't go out Friday — I have to get this fixed!”

*****

TJ's Pub was dark, dirty, and brimming with inebriated college students and townies alike. Despite being a total dive, it was considered one of the hottest night scenes in town, partially because of the cheap yet diverse array of alcohol close to campus, and partially thanks to their lax policy on ID checking.

Normally, I loved it there, despite the grit, but tonight every bar stool was filled with someone who might do me harm. Which friendly face might poison my drink? Who might be plotting to catch me alone and plunge a knife in my chest? Sure enough, at a corner table, under a tacky display of novelty license plates, were three girls from my old sorority. One glanced up and met my eye as I scanned them, then quickly looked away, and whispered to the other girls. What if they knew Brenda? What if they put her up to it? Whatever they were doing, their presence here couldn't be good news.

My friends and I sat down at the bar, and despite my belly shaking like a pair of pom-poms, it didn't take long for me to forget about the looming sorority girls behind me. This place was like home. The bartender, a burly man with a thick dappled beard and a Harley-Davidson jacket, greeted us with a gruff grunt, a nod, and smiling eyes. Frank was a bit like Bill — he looked like he could knife a man without a second thought, but was actually a sweetheart who loved showing pictures of his baby daughter to all the regulars. Since my near-death-experience, I had been avoiding crowds, but here I felt safer than when I was alone in my room.

A man in his late twenties wearing a backwards baseball cap, and a football jersey that showed off his prominent body-builder physique sidled along next to us, and made a crude opening remark.

“Hey baby, did it hurt?”

I resisted gagging. “When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?” must have been the oldest, cheesiest pick-up line in the book. Instead of following the script by asking what-ever-did-he-mean? I replied:

“Yeah, it hurt a lot. Had to spend the night in a hospital. Did you see my picture in the newspaper?”

That was not an answer he was expecting, and I eagerly satisfied his curiosity — and drew a small crowd — with an action-filled horror story starring an injured damsel named me. A few bar-goers had seen the paper, and had questions, condolences, high-fives, and naturally, offers to buy me drinks, which I graciously accepted. The routine kept free rounds flowing my way all night. A bat of the eyelashes, and I could have walked away with the whole bar. Julie was clapping her hands with glee at all the free drinks I was pulling, and sharing. Sarah was less amused.

“How is your therapy going, by the way?” she asked, as an admirer tipped his hat and departed.

“My what?” I slurred, between shots. “Oh! Therapy! Yeah, it's going super good. Like, we're really talking through a lot of, you know, the trauma.”

“Uh-huh. And how does your therapist feel about you making light of your situation for _free beer?_ Don't you think you're repressing your real feelings?”

“Um… no. No, I think… my therapist… would say I'm coping by… having some fun. If you're going to almost be murdered, the least you can do is drink away the memory on someone else's tab, right?” I grinned, and offered her a glass. She politely declined, and went to go sit at a quiet table with Mark. Was she suspicious? Oh well. I was tipsy enough not to worry about that. In fact, we'd only been there for an hour or two, and even with Julie's help splitting my drinks, I'd already had enough to be bursting at the seams. I shot up, and stumbled to the ladies' room, unaware that I was being followed.

*****

I sighed in relief as I pulled down my skirt and leggings, and emptied my bladder like an over-filled water balloon in the too-small bathroom stall, covered floor-to-ceiling in graffiti. The tight space reeked of urine and puke from those too boozed-up to aim, but I was a few sheets to the wind beyond caring (though not enough to miss the bowl and pee on my cute slingback pumps).

When I exited the stall, two girls wearing Greek letters were waiting for me.

“Get back!” I bellowed. I reached for the pepper spray I always carried on me, but it was in my coat… hanging off a bar stool. I let out an ear-ripping shriek, hoping someone might hear me over the din of the crowd outside. One of them pushed me back against the tiled wall and cupped her pink-polished hands over my mouth.

“Shh! What are you doing?”

Tears appeared in the corners of my eyes and I gave a muffled whimper into her palm, “Pleesh don' kill me. I need to wash my handsh!”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” said the blonde with the Barbie-doll nails, stepping back with a sideways glance to her partner. Slowly, I edged over to the sink and turned on the water. If I were sober, I would bolted for the door, but don't try to tell drunk-Michelle about priorities.

“Why would you think we wanted to kill you?” the other girl, a tall redhead in stunning heels, asked.

“We just want to talk,” chimed the first, holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe 'cause it wouldn't be the first time _this month_ someone's tried to kill me? Why did you stalk me into the bathroom if you just wanna talk?”

They grimaced at each other. “You've been avoiding us, and you've been spreading rumors that it was us that tried to kill you. The police even came and interviewed every girl in the house.”

“Yeah, Michelle, not cool. We were afraid your friends might, I don't know… attack us or something if we came over.”

“Right,” I sarcastically rebutted, shaking the water from my hands and starting to feel cogent again. “That's why you ambushed me. Did _Stacy_ send you to spy on me?”

“Stacy got expelled six months after you dropped out. She's not in charge of anything anymore. And Lisa? She graduated last year. Those bitches were ruining the house, but they're gone now. I swear, we would never try to kill you! When you dropped out we were pissed off at first, but… you're still our sister. We rushed together, remember?”

“After you left, we started to recognize how bad Stacy and Lisa were getting. You were so right _._ We were the ones who ratted her out for bringing drugs into the house. We don't want you dead, we want you to come back!”

“Stacy and Lisa are gone?” I had distanced myself from that group so much, I hadn't even heard. It _was_ always just a handful of girls spoiling the bunch. I had grown so paranoid, I forgot the bond I used to share with so many of my sisters. I couldn't even remember their names through my drunken haze, but I remembered being 18, desperate to make new friends after I lost Nat, and being accepted and initiated alongside them. Social dynamics in the house felt like a high school clique even before the hazing started, but the girls weren't evil. They weren't killers.

We walked out into the bar together with a new kinship… but no sooner had the women's room door slammed behind us, Julie caught sight of me flanked by two antagonists, and leaped across the bar in a single bound.

She thrust her index finger in their faces. “Unhand her, fiends!”

I explained the situation, and my two old acquaintances blurted shame-faced apologies. They remembered her rush, and said they were sorry things got so carried away. Julie planted a hand on her hip, unimpressed.

“Oh sure, you act like you're all chummy now, but I was there that night. You were totally on board with it, and I happen to know a few girls got hurt that night, like, bad. Leave us alone. I've got the only sister I need right here!” she linked her arm through mine, proudly.

“We know,” the redhead sighed, “but look, we're graduating this year. We're gone soon, and the other girls, most of them had nothing to do with it. You're going to be a junior next year, the house could use leadership like you.”

“We heard you're really energetic, and good at planning parties. Nobody else wants to step up into that role next year.”

For a long second that dragged on, Julie stood motionless, but I could feel the gears turning inside her, spinning faster on their hinges until she seemed to vibrate. Her mouth pressed shut at an odd angle until she could no longer hold back the bubbles boiling over within.

“ _You heard I like parties?_ ” Her amber eyes gleamed.

We got a table and spent half the night talking, but the three of them dominated the conversation. It was difficult for Julie to hold a grudge, and she was very eager to know _what kind_ of parties and would she _really_ be allowed to plan them? While they negotiated, I leaned back in my chair and got lost in thoughts of Bill. When I saw him again, would I tell him I loved him? Would I play it cool? Was it dinner, or was it a date? His smile looped forever on repeat behind my eyes. I yawned.

I may have _just slightly_ fallen asleep at the table. The next thing I remembered, the bar was starting to clear out. Julie was excitedly discussing the prospect of rushing again as a sophomore, and The Bathroom Duo (as I resigned to calling them, rather than admit to never catching their names) was assuring her rites of passage would be humane this year.

The crowd had dwindled so low, the classic rock station usually lost under a sea of blended conversations was for once audible. I wondered what kind of music Bill listened to. Frank paused polishing the bar counter to help a passed-out drunk to his feet, and escorted him to the parking lot with his designated driver. As if waiting for that opening, a shadow loomed over me. I gasped, all at once wide awake, and swiveled around.

“Oh,” I chuckled nervously, “If it isn't Backwards Baseball Cap.”

A vein twitched under his muscle at the moniker. “It's John,” said the large, jersey-clad inebriate. “You need a ride, baby?”

“No thanks, baby.” I turned back around to brush him off. Julie was still engrossed with her new friends, and hadn't even noticed a ship flying a red flag sail close to our fleet.

Unwilling to be ignored, he grabbed my chair and spun it around to face him, so easily a chill ran down my spine. Warning bells pealed in my mind. _Hostile sighted. Prepare to fight._ He smiled flirtatiously, leaning over my chair with an arm still stoutly braced on the backrest. He clearly believed he was being charismatic, but his face was too close to mine, and his breath reeked of beer.

“Get away from me!” I barked, puffing my chest with confidence I didn't have. He didn't move. I aimed cannons, and fired a warning shot across his bow. “What are you like 30? Hit on someone your own age, creep. Desperate much?”

“Come on, don't be like that. I spent fifty bucks on you and your friends tonight, I at least deserve a goodnight kiss.” His return fire whizzed across deck and tore through my sails. _He did buy like five rounds,_ I thought guiltily, before shaking it off.

“Sure you deserve a kiss. I bet Frank'll be happy to oblige.” My eyes scanned the room. Frank was still outside wrangling wobbling alcoholics.

“I meant from you,” he persisted.

“…How do you even manage to walk around with a skull that thick? I know what you meant, neanderthal.”

“You ungrateful cunt,” he hissed, as a final broadside of verbal shrapnel punctured the hull of his ego. “That's how you talk someone who buys you drinks? You need to be taught some manners.” His free arm grabbed the other side of the chair's back, imprisoning me between two immovable columns of tendon.

My heart pounded against my ribcage, as trapped as I was. There was a bouncer at the door, but he wouldn't intervene unless there were punches flying. As far as anyone watching was concerned, this was harmless courtship. _What if I did punch him? Would he snap my neck?_ My mind flew, looking for a way to escape. _What if I screamed?_

Hops-scented breath descended upon me, and two putrescent lips assaulted the side of my mouth as I tried to turn away. I was so stunned for a moment I froze. Then I slammed the heel of my palm into his meaty face — and was surprised by how easily the heavyweight yielded. Instead of fighting back, he stumbled backwards, and continued flying back. Mark was on the other side of him, pulling him off by his shoulders.

Sarah rushed to my side, motherly concern filling her eyes as she checked me over for injury. “We were sitting across the room, and we saw this guy come up, and we didn't know if you knew him or what, but then it all happened so fast, and, oh God, are you okay?” she gushed. I rubbed my face with my sleeve over and over, wondering if I would ever feel clean again.

As soon as he got his footing, the muscular thug faced down Mark, towering several inches above him in height, and outweighing him by even more in girth. “Get outta my way, dude,” he growled.

Despite a clear disadvantage in stature, Mark stood almost tip-toed to stand up to Baseball Cap Guy, lips curling in rage. “Stay the fuck away from her, or I swear —”

Baseball Cap wound up his fist to take a swing, but found his arm captured and pinned from behind by the bouncer, who finally found cause to intervene. Frank was just coming back in from outside, and stalked up to the creep with fury. “John!” he roared. “I warned you if I caught you hassling my regulars, you were out.” Mark lunged toward the restrained assailant, fists balled, but Frank quickly stepped between. “Hey, hey! Back off! We got this. Take a walk.”

Mark huffed, but turned away obediently.

“I wasn't doing anything,” John whined. “We were just talking!”

“I don't ever want to see your face in my bar again, capeesh?” Frank shoved him roughly toward the door. The bouncer started to usher the man outside to exile, when a streak of brown hair tore across the bar. Julie punched him square in the nose, to an awful crunching sound.

“Owie, owie, ow!” she nursed her knuckles.

Baseball Cap shook off the bouncer like an enraged beast, stomped forward and swatted Julie into a table. She shrieked. There were shouts and cries of outrage from the few remaining patrons, and barked threats as Frank and the bouncer got the angry inebriate back under control. Julie fell to the floor with a heavy thud, and lay still.

I bolted upright, finally coming out of my stupor. My head swayed and spun from standing, but I staggered to Julie's side, where she lay on a collapsed bar table.

“Oh shit,” his eyes widened, suddenly knowing he had crossed a line. “I didn't mean to, I swear! Is she okay?”

Frank answered with a sharp jab in the gut that made him double over, coughing, before dragging him outside, threatening to call the police.

Julie's eyes were closed, and she wasn't moving. Hot tears rolled down my face unbidden as I knelt beside her. _She couldn't be dead…_ “Julie? I whimpered.

Her eyes snapped open and a smirk came to her face. “How was that for acting?”

“What?” Mark and Sarah gathered around, similarly confused. “Acting?!”

Julie pulled herself into a cross-legged sitting position, with a look of self-satisfaction. “As soon as he shoved me I figured I better go limp and make it seem worse than it was. Even took a whole table with me — dramatic, right?” she giggled. “I bet he's gonna think twice next time he goes to hit a girl. Asshole.”

I pulled Julie into a hug, and wiped my tears off behind her back. “You're insane, you know that?” I sniffed.

“I'm sorry, Michelle… I couldn't see your face, I thought you were flirting until he started getting rough. I'm a terrible friend… I let you down.”

“Shut up,” I reassured her, squeezing her tighter. Sarah joined in, then Mark, and then even the two sorority girls awkwardly joined in the group hug.

“I can't believe I was in a _bar fight_ ,” Julie marveled, voice muffled in the center of the hug. “Awesome.”

“Lucky I was watching your back, right, Michelle?” Mark said.

“Yeah,” I beamed. “Lucky I've got such good friends.”

“Great friends. Right.” For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind. “Let's get you home…”

The only sober one among us, Sarah took my keys, and taxied our whole group back to campus.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A falling out.

Friday morning classes were a blur of bright lights and loud noises. The hangover finally started fading by afternoon, when my free period came around — just in time to get my Check Engine light fixed. I braced myself for another meeting with Bill, trying in vain to quell the butterflies going wild in my chest. Would he miss me? With my friends' growing complaints about the amount of time I spent over there, I had seen much less of Bill in the past week, ever since our date-that-wasn't-a-date.

Or, what if it _was_ a date?

My stomach flipped as often as my thoughts on the matter as I drove the SUV down familiar roads, where shopping centers and apartments gave way to quiet residential neighborhoods, which were gradually replaced by pine forests and farm fields. Seemingly in the middle of an endless stretch of woods, where the road was nearly too narrow for two cars to pass, the trees suddenly opened up on the friendly lot filled with old cars and tow trucks, and two ancient fuel pumps in front of a little garage. For some reason, I thought about the unwanted kiss from the previous night, and rubbed my face again. _There's only one person I want kissing me… and he doesn't even know._

Just as I began to cut the wheels to turn into the driveway, it struck me that it might be demeaning to walk in and demand, “Pump my gas, Bill. Fix my car.”Would he be offended that I was asking him to do menial labor? My hands clenched down the wheel, but it was too late to turn around. He already heard me coming.

I put it in park, and had to fight to control the waver in my voice as I leaned out the window. “Check Engine light is on. I was hoping you could take a look at it.” I grimaced, nervous as a school girl with her first crush, “That is, if you have time.”

He beamed and rubbed his hands together like I'd brought him a special project, and all my fears evaporated. “Ah, a mm-mystery! I'll s-see what's wrong, and… let you know what I c-c-can do.”

We rolled the Expedition into the garage, and I stood back as he opened up the hood and worked his wizardry. _He really likes repairing cars,_ I realized for the first time, marveling at the fixated expression he wore, and pleased smile playing on his lips. Whenever I visited, he put off toiling in the garage to sit and talk with me, so I had never seen him work before. I always assumed it was an unpleasant task — something one did because they had no other skills — but he wasn't miserable, and the labor hardly looked menial. There were new junkers rotating through the parking lot every week, so he must have attracted many loyal clients in spite of his reclusive nature.Working like that, brow low over eyes squinted in concentration, I could see why. His grease-stained clothes, which were off-putting out of context, now seemed the uniform of a skilled professional. He was an artist at work… only more rugged… with a nice butt under his jeans.

After poking around for a long time, finally he turned to me, hands clasped together to deliver his report. I stood up from the chair I'd been dozing off in.

“Well… your transmission band's w-worn out.”

“Okay… can you fix it?”

“Y-yes…” His head dodged down and shrugged back up, “It's going… going to take awhile.”

“How long?” I asked, already sure of the answer by his dire tone.

“The p-p-part's easy, it's just… getting at it. I'll have to pull the whole transmission. It'll… t-take a few hours.”

“But I have class at five! Can I drive it?”

“I… I wouldn't.”

I pouted. His forehead creased as he watched my lower lip jut out. He nodded to himself, wiped his hands off with a rag, and paced out the garage door. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “MARTY!”

The part-timer came swaggering out of the back, and leaned casually against the wall.

“Sup?”

“Watch the station for an hour — no breaks. A-a-and don't touch this car!” He flashed his eyes in warning and patted the hood for emphasis. “I'll be b-back.”

 

*****

 

The tin box that Bill drove was older than I was, with the AM radio tuned perpetually to a classic country station. I glanced at him through the corner of my eye, and quickly back to the road when I saw his blue orbs start to rotate in my direction. I wriggled in the passenger seat against the itchy seat belt and upholstery, feeling like a kid being driven to school. He was sitting so close; close enough to fool around, if we were dating. I could slip a hand in his lap, and see if he'd hold it. My face felt feverish again, and I trembled. _So strange._ I never got this nervous with guys. If I wanted to date somebody, I would just grab them and start making out, confident they would be more than happy to play. Yet this time, I was crushed by the fear that if I reached out my hand toward him, he would pull away. He would say, “You're too young for me.”

A Johnny Cash song came on that I recognized, and Bill's mumbled voice filled the tortured silence, moving his lips along to the words. I turned fully toward him at last, shocked, and he blushed. He closed his mouth, but a soft, irrepressible hum vibrated his throat, unwilling to let go of the tune even for dignity. I bit my lip to keep the smile from exploding off my face — he was such an unbelievable goofball.

“As sure as night is dark and day is light…” I sang in solidarity, “I'll keep you on my mind both day and night… Hmmm-hmm-hmmm-something-hmm-hmm… proves that it's right…”

Bill's looked sideways at me, then his bright laughter rang through the cabin. Then we crooned the remaining verses together, broken by fits of giggles. “ _Because you're mine, I walk the line_.” Encouraged, he sang along to the next song, even when I didn't know the lyrics and couldn't accompany him.

When he sang, his stutter vanished, and his voice smoothed into a velvety tenor that felt natural for country (however little I appreciated the genre). I sat back, letting an elbow sling out the window, watching the muscles in his jaw move. There was a simple, earthy quality about him that I never appreciated before, but now seemed more beautiful and seductive than all the wealthy urban men I had ever encountered. I pictured him strumming a guitar, serenading me as he sat on the floor of a cozy cabin in the woods, and I lay waiting for him… In bed. Naked.

I was still mooning over him when we pulled in front of the university's ivy-covered brick buildings. Shaking out of my stupor, I twisted to grab my pack from the back seat.

“I get out of class by six thirty.”

“Alright, kiddo. I'll come get you as s-s-soon as the repair's d-done.”

“Thank you so much!” I exclaimed, stretching between the seats to hug him. He patted me on the back, and told me it was no problem. Then he drove off, leaving me on the sidewalk staring wistfully after him.

 

“Michelle! Is that your dad?”

 

I froze. _Shit._ Slowly turning around, I saw Julie, Sarah, and Mark making their way down the sidewalk toward the old brick history building. _Shit._ They were nearly on top of me — they must have seen everything.

“ _As if_ my dad would be caught dead in that wreck,” I quipped, immediately kicking myself for telling the truth. _Shit!_ I blathered, hoping to change the subject, “He gave me the Expedition because it was ‘too outdated’ after two years.”

“The gas station attendant?” Sarah crossed her arms. “You're still going there for lunch, after all?”

My silence confirmed everything.

“That's _him?_ ” Julie gawked. “Wow, I pictured something different.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Really, Julie? You've seen his _photograph_. What else were you picturing?”

“Well I don't know, since Michelle's been spending so much time fawning, I thought he'd be… muscular?”

“How could you tell how muscular he was when he was sitting the car the whole time? We could barely see his face.” Sarah groaned.

Julie blinked a few times, twisting a hair between her fingers thoughtfully. “I just have a sense for these things,” she concluded with a nod.

I shook my head, and shrugged in good humor. It seemed like that was the end of the conversation — I had escaped without needing to explain why I was with him, or why I was in his car. Mark couldn't let it go, though. He had been holding his tongue while Sarah and Julie joked and teased, but finally he seethed, “Don't let that guy get the wrong impression, Michelle.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was giving you the eye, I saw it.”

 _Was he?_ I wondered hopefully.

“ _Oooooh_ ,” Julie intoned, “Is he your _boooyfriend?”_

“No!” I threw my hands in the air. “It's not like that at all. He's just fixing my car, and it's not like he's got a shuttle service like the service shops in town.”

Mark pursued me like a hound after a fox. “So then why not use a place in town? Don't lie to us, it's way more than that. Maybe your car is really busted this time, maybe not, but I _know_ you haven't been going to therapy — you've been seeing him.”

“Is that true?” Sarah looked hurt. I couldn't deny I had lied to her.

“He… he saved my life, okay? You don't know what that's like. You don't know what its like when you're about to get chopped up with an axe and only one person was there to save you…”

Julie crumbled, rushing to my side to offer a supportive arm, but Sarah scowled, “We get it. You're such a _brave victim_.”

“Fine, okay, I deserve that. So I've been hamming it up with the victim card. That doesn't mean —”

“I saved your life last night, too,” Mark interrupted, “I've been watching out for you since freshman year, and I don't see you clinging to me like a lost puppy. So what the hell are you doing over there?”

 _I'm in love with him? Maybe I have been this whole time?_ But I couldn't exactly say that out loud.

“You can't just keep running back to some filthy gas station because you're scared of your own shadow,” Mark pleaded. “You were cheer captain back in high school, you are so far out of his league it's not even funny.”

Then I saw it. Needles behind his eyes, tiny and piercing. We had gone to the same high school, and hooked up _once_ at a party when I was drunk. I had forgotten all about it… but there it was, like the glistening tip of a needle. He never forgot.

“That was three years ago. Maybe it's time to grow up,” I hissed through my teeth.

“And what? Lower your standards?” he persisted, voice rising, “You could have any guy you want.”

The truth was, I barely remembered who he was from high school. He was just some random loser I kissed in a closet, but he made sure we became friends in college. After I mysteriously lost my best friend, Natalie, it was easy for him to get close. I was lonely. I had fallen so far off my high horse. When he disapproved of the jerks I dated, I figured he was just looking out for me… but he had another motive entirely.

“So then why don't you just tell me, Mark? Tell me who I'm _allowed_ to have feelings for. You?”

“That would be the first good decision you've made in a long time. You have no appreciation for who your real friends are. I'm the one looking out for your best interests. This creep does one nice thing for you, and you're _obsessed?_ When is it my turn? —”

“Are you kidding me?”

“— And since when does 'growing up' mean slumming with some pedophile freak?”

My hand whipped through the air and cracked hard against his face. The echo glanced off the old brick buildings, and stopped his stream of vitriol.

“Don't talk about him like that! Don't you ever fucking dare!”

He clung to the stinging red mark I left on his cheek, and stumbled back in horror. He was stunned. “F-fuck you, you crazy bitch! I hope that perv rapes you!” He spat, and ran across the road, away from class.

I was shaking so hard, I didn't realize Julie and Sarah were talking, saying something. I half expected them to follow after Mark, but they stood by my side, chattering rapidly. I couldn't believe I hit Mark. The things he said made me so blindingly angry. I couldn't believe he just said those things to me. _When was it_ his _turn?_ We'd known each other since high school. Had the contempt been in there that whole time? Had he been waiting for the day I'd break down? The day I would get as wasted as I had been junior year, when Natalie's parents were away for the weekend and I made her throw a kegger? Until that moment I thought we had been friends. How was it that he put me so high up on a pedestal, and I never noticed? How was it that he threw me in the trash in the same breath?

My vision lost its blur at last. “I'm sorry…” I told Sarah. She had recommended therapy, and I had lied right through my teeth about going.

“What? For slapping Mark? It was a bit of an extreme reaction, maybe, but he had it coming,” she replied, her brief anger with me set aside and forgotten.

“He totally had it coming,” Julie added, “We were just teasing you… he took it too far. He really thought you have the hots for that old guy. How dumb is that? Do you think he was jealous?”

I choked on my breath. My friends were taking my side, but only because they didn't realize Mark's accusations were true. What would they think if I really did date Bill? Would they call him a pedophile, too? If that was what people thought, I couldn't bear to expose him to that kind of slander. Not on top of the murder accusations.

I could have given up on my crush just to spare him the judgment, but, there was nothing wrong with me wanting to be with him. So what if he was twice my age? We were both adults. So what if people thought I was too young? I was a grown woman, and I could date whomever I wanted without being told I was crazy, or being preyed upon. So what if Sarah thought I needed therapy, Julie thought it was gross, and Mark wanted me for himself? My choice was the one that mattered — and my choice was Bill.

I just needed to get _him_ to see it that way. I needed him to love me back. Everyone else would understand, in time.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About time.

Mark's empty seat beside me screamed shrill accusations throughout class. The words “slumming” and “pedophile” buzzed through my head like poison-tipped darts, precision-aimed at my insecurities. _Everyone else will say the same thing. Our age difference, and his social status will make people talk. If I can even convince Bill to date me, both our reputations will go to shit._

When my mind wasn't spinning with apocalyptic dread, I was humming Johnny Cash songs and thinking about the sound of Bill's voice when it swelled into a melody. It didn't matter what anybody said. Though my body was sitting at a desk in class with a notebook open before it, my mind was far away, filled with helpless fascination for my crush. By the time the period was over, the margins of my book were scribbled with heavily-inked doodles of hearts, a few notes for the autobiography I was writing for a different class (“ _revise the Mark character”_ ), and absolutely nothing else. I might as well have skipped the lecture and waited at the garage for the repairs to be finished.

*****

Bill called up my dorm telephone around seven, and relief unknotted my twisting stomach. Every minute that ticked by after class I had spent regretting ever going, stewing in alternating anger, and panic, and determination to tell Bill how I felt.

I clutched my arms around my chest and bounced up and down against the cool evening air as I impatiently waited for him. When his beat-up old car finally swooped up to the curb, I sprang inside and slammed the door behind me, leaving behind the hate and judgmental stares of my classmates.

I was home.

We were together, safe in our own little rolling universe, where it smelled like him, and engine grease, and tire rubber. Sitting in the passenger seat beside him as we rattled down that familiar ribbon of country road, I felt calm. We were heading away from the concrete prison of my dorm, and toward that quiet little haven where Bill and I would eat lunch, and talk about cars, and books, and the terror that brought us together.

The fear of that night seemed so distant now, but I remembered the texture of his clothes, and his skin, as he held me warm in his arms until the ambulance arrived. I would re-live that horrible night again and again just to be that close to him again. Just to feel as protected.

We pulled in as the sun waned low behind the trees, casting a mottled orange glow over the parking lot and dimly lit garage. My SUV was parked out front, ready and waiting for me to drive home. Bill hopped out of the car and slammed it shut behind him, loud enough to startle the young part-timer from his on-the-clock nap.

“Hey, you're back already! Just, uh, testing the bench here. Beautiful night, right?”

Bill crossed his arms and mouthed, “unbelievable.”

“Oh, _she's_ back too, huh?” Marty intoned, catching sight of me opening the passenger-side door. He made kissing noises and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“N-n-n-n — knock it off! Shh-she's practically _your_ age,” Bill retorted with sharp annoyance edging his voice.

My heart sank straight down through my stomach and to the floor, where an abyss opened up and swallowed it. That was it then. It was not a date. It was never a date. How stupid could I be?

“Right, right. Should _I_ be nervous, in that case?” Marty joked. Bill's face turned beet-red, and he lost all fluency, babbling a jumble of syllables rapid-fire. “Kidding, _kidding_ , jeez!”

Bill glowered, then shut his eyes and let a breath ripple out through tight-pressed lips. When he opened them again, all the anger was gone. “Hea-heading out, kid?”

“If that's alright, Mr. M. I've got homework.”

“W-which you could've been doing instead of… n-napping,” he sighed. “See you to—m-m-m-morrow.”

The teen threw a backpack over his shoulder and got in a rusty farm truck that must have belonged to his parents before he was born. After a few failed starts, the engine turned over, and he left the pair of us alone.

“So many old cars out here,” I marveled idly, trying to make small talk. We hadn't spoken much in the car, and now it seemed like there was nothing left to do but take my keys and go. There was no reason for me to stay, unless I could start a conversation.

“B-b-because I take g-good care of them,” he boasted, proudly. “Yours could last m-m-much longer, too…”

Before I knew what was happening, he launched into a sermon on how to better maintain a car. A three-year-old SUV like mine shouldn't have had a busted transmission, he said, and gave some very serious advice about oil change intervals, and not swapping into reverse without stopping. I might have absorbed more of his advice, but I couldn't stop thinking about how sexy it was when he was authoritative, and then chiding myself. _You're closer to a teenager, remember?_

"Um, how much do I owe you?" I asked, like a coward, instead of asking if he'd meant that remark.

"I c-couldn't ask you for... It w-was a f-f-favor."

"No way! Thanks, but I'm not letting you work for free,” I insisted. “It's fine — it's my parents' credit card, anyway."

He made a curious face at that, something like a cringe. Then he took the card, and disappeared into the back room. _Great._ Did I just remind him of how young I was, or how _spoiled?_ I was overcome with the need to explain that I would only be in school for another year, the card was only for tuition and emergencies, and that I was fully capable of taking care of myself. I wasn't a helpless high schooler. I needed him to understand that. Urgency coursed through my blood and pounded in my veins until the tips of my fingers were trembling, as I play-acted in my mind the things I might say. I became so tense that when he rounded the corner to return my card, I jumped, clutching my chest. His eyes were so startlingly blue.

He began to stammer an apology, but I interrupted, trying not to let my voice shake.

"I'm not too young, you know. Do you think I'm too young?"

"For w-what?"

I couldn't stand it anymore. Like a beast clawing out of a cage, I blurted, "For this," and fell forward against his lips. They were wind-chapped, and fit mine like they were made for each other — but they made no move to kiss me back, and his spine became rigid as a board. I pulled away, boiling with shame at my mistake."Oh god… I'll take that as a yes… I'm so sorry for making this awkward…"

His face was flushed, and he seemed not to breathe. For a moment the entire earth seemed to halt its rotation in his gaze. Then his hands were around me, rough, and grasping at my waist. My eyes dropped shut as his lips consumed me, and I could taste my cherry chapstick on him. The forgotten credit card dropped unnoticed to the floor as I ran my hand up through his long tangle of steel hair, and felt him respond by drawing me closer. A purr of satisfaction rumbled deep in my throat.

And just like that, he pushed my shoulders away again.

“No,” I whined.

"I c-c-can't… Th-this is wrong," he sputtered nervously, white as a ghost. "Y-you _are_ too young. You're half my age. Three years ago… th-this wouldn't be legal.”

“So?” I scoffed, “That was a long time ago. I'm twenty-one now!”

“And you're s-sss-still young enough to think th-th-three years is long.”

“Wait,” I paused, feeling foolish. “Do years really feel shorter when you get old?”

He raised his head up, and cocked it ever-so-slightly. “Uh… well, s-sort of? That is… th-there's m-m-more of 'em to rem-rem-remember; they lump together. I suppose the actual time p-passes the same. I'm n-n-not having this conversation in fast-forward or nothing.”

“See?” I smiled slyly, “There's all sorts of wise things you can teach me about the world.”

He frowned. “Y-you don't know what… y-you're getting into."

"Yeah, I do. I'm not some innocent kid you're gonna deflower — I've had sex with plenty of guys. What difference does your age make?"

His intense look broke at that, and he laughed a little while shaking his head. "I don't c-care how many people you've had sex with… Trying to make me jealous?"

My cheeks heated. _Good job telling him you're a slut. Guys don't want to hear you're more experienced than they are!_ I wondered, with a flutter of my heart, whether he had ever done it before, as shy and gawky as he was.

"Relationships are… m-more than sex.”

“And you think I'm too young to really be serious,” I stated dismally, shoulders falling. “You don't… actually want me, do you? I thought, since you kissed me back… I wish you hadn't kissed me back.”

“I… I'm sorry. I never expected you to… to return m-m-m-my feelings. You're hard to r… resist.”

“Return them? You like me?”

“Of course I do, dammit,” he hissed, “I was stupid, I nuh-nuh… know I'm too old for you. Asking you to dinner, it was… was sss-stupid. I never meant to make you… uncomfortable. I realized I was acting like a lovesick fool, and it wasn't right w-w-with… with a girl your age. I m-m-m-made up my mind it was wrong. I decided that I wouldn't —”

“—But you don't _have to_ resist anymore, I like you back,” I said in a velvety seductive voice, as I moved close to snake my hand around the small of his back. He shied away from my touch, and held me at arm's length.

“Y-you think you want me now… b-but it's a phase,” he explained. “Everything feels real and permanent when you're young, but one day you'll ch-change your mind. You'll r-resent being shackled to a man who never did anything with his life, and by then… I'm n-n-not going to want to let you go… For b-both our sakes, I decided… it's a b… bad idea.”

“Okay…” I nodded, letting his words turn over like hot coals in my mind. “Okay, I hear what you're saying, but now _you're_ going to listen. _Fuck you!_ ” His eyes shot open. “Screw you, thinking you know what's best for me without even asking. Maybe you _are_ too old for me if you think it's okay to act like you know everything — like you can predict when I'm gonna change my mind. I'm not a kid for you to condescend to. You're right about one thing though — you _haven't_ done anything with your life. You've got twenty years on me, but from where I'm standing, I'm still ahead of you on good decision making. I'm getting a degree. I'm going to be somebody, so how dare you pretend _I'm the one_ who doesn't know what she wants… how… how dare you…”

He shattered, seeming to shrink before me. Tears rimmed his eyes, about to overflow. He turned his head down so I wouldn't see.

“Ye — ye-y-y-ye… you're… rrruh… ruh-ruh… right…” he choked out pitifully.

“Don't…” my lungs spasmed, drawing in an unexpected breath. I realized my own throat was tight. How had I managed to sustain a tirade against someone so defenseless? He insulted me, though he hadn't meant to… Of course he hadn't meant to. I was angry because I didn't get what I wanted, and now I utterly ruined my chances.

“I'm not right, I'm… I'm just mean. I've always been a bitch, I just thought I could hide it from you. But… now you know. I guess it is better if you avoid me.” A tear slid over my cheek. “I'll… I'll go, but I just… want you to know I didn't mean that, about your life. This place isn't nothing. You manage it all by yourself, and that's more than I could do. I'm not smart enough to run a business. You're amazing at fixing cars, and you love doing it… Doing something you love, and you're good at… that's definitely something.”

He still stared at the floor, not making a sound. Strands of curling hair hid his eyes, but his breath came easier. I continued sharing everything I could think of, to forestall the moment he looked up, and told me to get out.

“It's not like a degree in English qualifies me for anything. All I want to be is a famous author. I used to think it was easy as going to college, and instantly writing a best-seller. Then I got to school, and realized that's what _all_ my classmates want to do. I've read their stuff, and some of it is crap, but they don't know that it's crap… What if all of _my_ writing is crap? I'm probably never going to have what you have. You _are_ smarter than me. I only yelled because… I didn't want you to be right… I'm sorry. Please don't think I meant it. I… I'll go. I won't bother you anymore.” My head hung with the weight of a thousand bricks, and I began to slink away.

“Th-th-throwing a… t-t-tantrum; it's veh… very… _ch-childish_ of you.”

I stopped in my tracks, and turned back over my shoulder. His eyes were swollen and melancholy, but the faint hint of a smirk turned the corners of his lips.

“Did… you just tell a joke?”

_Come here_ , he indicated with a nod toward our bench. I sat beside him, and he slumped against me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. My thinly stockinged leg pressed to his denim-clad thigh, closer than we had ever sat. He rubbed my arm briskly, in a comforting and familiar, if not romantic way.

“I-I've read your work, and it isn't crap,” he said softly.

My eyes welled up. “You… don't have to —”

“I shouldn't have… t-treated you like a kid. You're not one, but I… know being with me would be a m-m-mistake…”

“It's not a mistake. If… you still want me. I've never felt like this before; you're all I think about. I can't stand the thought of being without you. I don't understand why you would push me away, if you like me, too.”

“I've got… p-p-problems you don't know about. Th-things that… if you knew 'em, y-y-you'd look at me different.” He squeezed my shoulders closer and rested his head over mine possessively, as if already envisioning me leaving.

There was a story there. Something important, and secret, that he didn't want to tell. Was there another woman? A drug addiction? Was Brenda not the first person he'd killed? Was it possible he could be hiding something that _would_ change the way I saw him? The night air filled my lungs, as he softly breathed beside me. For a quiet, fleeting moment, I relished our closeness.

“Then tell me. Let me decide.”

He let out a defeated sigh, like dusty air rushing from a long-sealed room being pried open. He rose, and paced a few steps into the growing dark, then turned back, jaw set. His weathered fingers began undoing the buttons at the collar of his flannel jacket, one by one, working his way down. My heart fluttered.

“Are you saying you were a stripper? Like The Full Monty?”

He continued without answering, but as more buttons came undone, he revealed a cotton shirt beneath the flannel. _Probably not a strip-tease?_ When he reached the bottom, he pulled it off, and folded it over the arm of the bench. I had never seen him in short sleeves before. His well-muscled upper arms were far larger than his lanky frame would suggest. Bill interrupted my approving gaze by flipping over his left palm, drawing focus to a wrist crossed with fine white lines. He pointed to one, a few inches up from the joint of his hand. It was more jagged than the others, as if sketched by an inexperienced artist.

"This was the f-f-first time I tried to... kill m-m-my-myself." He jabbed his finger at another, cleaner, on his other wrist. "That was the second. And the third, fourth, fifth…" he trailed off, tracing the countless scars along the inside of his arm. He flipped his hand over to expose the round burn marks I once assumed were from work-related accidents. "Cig-cigarettes…"

" _Why?_ Why would you do that to yourself?" Tears that had barely dried pressed the back of my eyes anew. He was so sensitive and lonely, I should have guessed. I should have seen it.

"Because..." He shook his head with derisive humor, "I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy… Lots of people try to kill themselves, I saw a special about it on Oprah. It's no reason to be ashamed,” I assured him, even though up until that moment, I hadn't had much sympathy for the depressed. If that's what he was, then I could deal with it. Whatever he had said, I realized, I would have accepted, because it was _him._

"Y-you don't know… y-y-y-you don't understand yet.” His eyes blazed with a grim determination that I would leave him. “I... I used to be locked up. Oregon State Hospital m-m-mental ward. Ssss-same as Chief Bromden. It's where we m-met.”

I recalled the book Bill had lent me. There _had_ been a character, briefly mentioned, who stuttered. But that character died.

“Muh-muh… my m-mother worked there. Sh-she was close with the head nurse.”

He told me about his mother, who was too young and irresponsible to raise a child. When his father left, she latched on to Billy like a life preserver, and did everything in her power to keep him from growing up, finding a wife, and leaving her. He stuttered badly, and dropped out of college because of it. He proposed to a woman he barely knew, but he messed it up. He kept stuttering through the big question, until she laughed at him. His mother told him she was the only woman who would ever really love him. He slashed his wrists that day, but, he snickered darkly, “B-bungled that up, too.”

"I ch-ch-checked in to the hospital, because m-mother wanted me to… Kept trying to die 'till I had… th-this whole collection of scars, but I w-w-was too useless to even… do it right. Too spineless to… c-cut deep enough.”

“It wasn't a mistake. You weren't weak, you were strong for wanting to live.”

“Th-thanks for sayin' so, b-b-but I… I really w-wanted to die. Don't regret it, b-but… it's lack of fortitude, not a burning will to live th-that's got me standing here t-today.”

He ranted on for awhile about his supposed cowardice, and all the things that drove him toward madness as he settled in to the ward. It was hard to sit through how down on himself he was, and hard not to want to strangle his overbearing mother and the domineering head nurse for making him feel that way.

Then things took a twist that began to bring back the Bill I knew. A wild man named McMurphy, who had figured into the climax of Bromden's novel, was admitted to the ward, and began to shake things up.

“I-I-I thought my only escape w-w-was — was dying, but he… fought back. He treated us luh… like _people_ again, n-n-not just… crazy. Gave us a voice w-we ha-ha-hadn't noticed was taken away.”

Chief Bromden, he explained, had lost so much of his humanity, he had turned mute and near-catatonic. Just by talking to him as if his opinion mattered, McMurphy brought Chief's mind back from whatever dark corner it had isolated itself in. As for Bill himself, McMurphy treated him as an adult, until Bill remembered that he _was_ an adult. He didn't need to always do as mother said.

“Even snuck me in a girl… tw-twenty-five years old and I finally slept with a woman.”

There went my fascination with taking his virginity.

“But I g-g-got caught… The head nurse threatened to… to tell my muh-muh-muh — mother. Ssss-so I broke a glass, and jammed the end into my throat." He made a jerky gesture at the base of his neck, where a gnarled, ugly scar ran at least two inches, with smaller stitch marks still indented like a ladder on either side.

“Oh my god!” I gasped, hands flying to my mouth.

It was off to the left side of his neck, where his jacket collar normally obscured it. He looked like Frankenstein's monster, and must have been equally returned from the dead. I was no good at anatomy, but there were definitely important arteries there.

“How did you survive that?”

He chuckled reminiscently, “Nearly d-didn't. Shouldn't have. I lost so much blood, everyone thought I was d-d-dead — even Chief did for years, 'till I showed up at a book signing and scared the shit outta him. If the glass went one millimeter deeper, or Dr. Spivey hadn't acted so quickly I would've been, but,” he laughed again, “The thing about killing yourself in a h-h-hospital…”

When McMurphy saw him laying in a pool of his own blood, he didn't wait to hear about the transfusions and the stitches. He attacked the nurse, and nearly killed her. For that, she had him lobotomized — a procedure he did not survive. Most of the other patients who weren't committed checked themselves out, stronger for their friendship with the bold man. Word came to Billy that Chief had made an escape in the cover of night. It was just Bill left, locked down on suicide watch, where he was more dehumanized than ever. Every move he made was under supervision. He was allowed no freedoms, no possessions that could be used to hurt himself, and no contact with the outside world, except for frequent visits from his concerned mother.

“M-m-m-mother kept… kept… kept coming, an-an-and I wanted to… find another glass. Took me that long to realize the reason I wanted to d-die was to get away from her. Even the st-st-stupid proposal. All I wanted was… fff-freedom. So, I followed Chief's lead and broke out. Ran until I r-r-r-reached the east coast. Ch-changed my name so they couldn't ever find me, and they haven't for twenty years. Never got… got away from who I was completely. Still can't t-t-talk right, but I learned to work with my hands, to suh… survive on my own. Haven't… cut myself since then."

His eyes swept over me, trying to read my reaction. Tiny beads of perspiration blossomed his brow, though it was a chilly evening and he was more thinly dressed than I had ever seen him. "So n-now you know… I'm an escaped lunatic."

He was convinced I would run away screaming now that I knew everything. It _was_ more than I had ever expected. In my mind, Bill had always lived here, right here in this gas station, which he'd likely inherited from his father, whom I imagined was also a mechanic. That was the shallow depth I had assumed of his life, and in seconds he had revealed a fathomless ocean. He was born thousands of miles away, and had a whole secret life before I met him. He had been suicidal, and had an eerily Freudian relationship with his mother. The whole story had me reeling. My brainwaves flat-lined, and all I could focus on was a single thing.

Taking his outstretched, trembling wrist in my hands, I brought it to my lips, and sensuously read each line like Braille. Then I took his other wrist, and repeated kissing every mark etched into his skin, until tears overcame me and I had to bury my face against his arm. “You're alive,” I murmured into the raised marks. “You survived, and you found me. I never knew how I lucky I was to meet you.”

Goosebumps raised up his arm like a flight of birds, and he shivered under my lips. Lifting up on my toes, I leaned close enough to inhale the humid sweat and salt of his neck, and feel the frizzed tendrils of his hair tickle my cheek. I nuzzled the deep gouge of flesh that looked, up close, like a knotted tree root. _This was the one that nearly killed him._ It was an ugly reminder of a part of his life he couldn't bear living through, yet despite the odds, it had knit back together, and steadfastly held in the tide of his blood these last twenty years.

“Thank you,” I whispered, close enough that my lips brushed the grizzly tissue that had miraculously healed. “Thank you for letting Bill live.” Then my lips closed the distance fully, pressing into the savory saltiness of his neck. A sharp intake of breath hissed in my ear. I placed a second kiss just above the scar, and slowly traced the long stiff tendon up to the overhang of his jaw. His breath grew harder as I made a soft path of kisses across his cheekbone, where the texture of his skin changed to a light nip of stubble as I steadily made my way toward his lips. His hands closed around my waist, thumb making tender, tentative circles.

“Are… aren't you scared?” he exhaled.

“Never of you.” I tasted his lips, and captured a low moan.

He pulled back yet again, moving his hands from a sensual grasp on my waist to a pleading one on my arm. “But you _are_ too young, Michelle. I was… was already older than you… when I was luh-luh-locked up, and I'm not… n-not the same p-p-person anymore. D-d-do you understand? It isn't right. Y-you're going to grow up, an-and ch-ch-change, too. Few years, you won't even w-want me. You'll realize… I'm a broken old man, and you can d-d-do better.”

“That's not fair.” I pouted, red lower lip jutting out. I nipped at it to hide the quiver there, and to restrain it from flying back to his, already missing the radiant warmth of his kiss. “So what if you're different than you were at my age? So what if I'll change? If I wait twenty years, and I still want you, will it be good enough _then?_ I don't want to waste my life waiting, when I know I want you _now_. Even if I was forty right now, that's no guarantee I wouldn't still change. People your age can still change, can't they?”

He fidgeted. “It… d-doesn't bother you at all that I'm a m-m-m-mental patient?”

“You never hurt anybody but yourself. It could be worse…” I nearly told him, then and there. If he had just explained his darkest secret, and given me the chance to decide if I still wanted him, then if I were a decent person, it would be my cue to reciprocate. But mine _was_ worse, and I was too selfish to ruin things just as they were beginning.

“I… I know I have growing up to do. I'm already a different person than I was three years ago. If somebody told me back in high school I'd fall for you, I would have said, 'gag me with a spoon!' I was a stuck-up brat, but… I'm trying to be better. You make me want to be better. You're sweet, and patient, and everything I don't know how to be… If I change, and learn, and grow, I want you to be there beside me. I will always want you beside me. Bill… I _love you_.”

When he leaned in to brush his lips to mine again, I shut my eyes, and hoped that this time, he wouldn't pull away.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut!

The walls of his apartment were so close, I could almost touch both at once by stretching my arms wide. It was little more than a few rooms behind the garage; just enough to live and sleep in between fixing cars.

Bill fumbled for a switch on the wall. Yellow incandescent bulbs flickered to life, illuminating a living room that was bare but for a small television set, and a couch littered with crumpled flannel shirts, identical to the one folded over his arm. He rushed ahead to snatch them up and throw them in the hamper down the hallway. At the end of the hall, he hastily pulled taut the comforter on his bed.

“Ah-ah-ah… I d-didn't expect… uh…” he apologized, glancing around his apartment and finding last-minute things to straighten up. I wondered when _I_ had last made my bed, or put away laundry. It was probably best Bill didn't visit my dorm. Other than a few stray tools, his place was Spartan. It was so undecorated, it seemed more like a hotel than a home that someone _lived in._

He began to sit down on the couch, expecting we might watch television, or talk, but I breezed past him toward the bedroom. Whatever Bill's innocent plans were, I had a plan of my own.

I sat on the corner of the mattress, wrinkling the blanket he had just straightened, and glanced around. The bedroom was the innermost room of his sanctuary, and it was the only secluded space he let his guard down enough to look like a home. The walls were lined with mismatched bookshelves bursting with dog-eared technical manuals with diagrams of engines on the cover; self-help guides on every topic from anxiety, to depression, to _How to Lose Your Stutter_ ; Jane Austen novels; and poetry. _Bill reads romance,_ I smiled warmly.

The door creaked. Bill entered like a mouse. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but couldn't decide what.

“Surprised? Is it unusual to find a woman in your bed?” I patted the mattress, and he sat beside me, swallowing.

“It… r-really is,” he laughed.

My eyes fell on a framed photo sitting on a shelf in front of a stack of books. A round-faced young woman smiled demurely at the camera. “Then that's not another girlfriend?” I scowled, jealousy seeping into what was meant to be a joke. Her wispy blonde hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders, and put my short-cropped raven locks to shame.

“No,”Bill said wistfully. “It's my… m-mother.”

“Oh.” I was relieved. Sort of. “You… sleep with a picture of your mother watching you?”

“Guess that's weird, huh? I-I didn't look at her for y-years. Too afraid… One day I found it, tucked into my old journal from the ward. Thought the d-d-damn thing would bite me, but it… it's just ink on paper. Didn't have to… ch-ch-check myself into a loony bin, anyhow.” The humorous look broke, and he looked down at the floor. “I sss-still d-don't… have the guts to call her, but… it… it's sss-something, just to s-see her face, without…”

His face had grown so sullen, and his hand lay beside mine on the bed, temptingly near. I longed to close the few inches of distance, and intertwine my fingers with his. Unlike our uncertain date, there was no reason now to hold back. I slid my palm across the top of the blanket, and up and over the rough and weathered mountain of his hand.

“I'm sorry,” was all I could think to say.

Bill watched my silent caress playing out on the sheets between us with curious detachment, as if he were watching a television drama. As if someone else's hand were being held, not his. It was indeed an odd match up. My skin was spa-smooth from a daily regimen of moisturizer and a fierce antipathy toward work, while his was tanned and scarred, with bristles encroaching down the back of his hand like a spreading forest from his arm. He flipped his palm up to capture my delicate hand, and brought it to his lap to inspect, bemusedly. I squeezed, and he squeezed back, and it seemed his grip was on my heart. An eruption of warmth flooded my chest, spreading like glowing magma.

His eyes flicked up, and caught the photograph again, snapping his thoughts back.

“Mmm-maybe when it d-d-doesn't hurt to look at a picture… I'll be strong enough to… hear her voice.”

“You want to _call her?_ After all the shit you've been through to get away? You don't owe her anything! She made you want to kill yourself. That's enough torture for one lifetime. She can go to hell.”

“Sss… s-sorry…” Bill muttered, humiliated. I realized I was panting, and my nails were digging into his palm.

“Shit. No. I'm sorry. I wasn't… yelling at you. I just can't stand the way she messes with your head. I don't understand why you don't hate her — why you even want to talk to her.”

“I ran away. She m-must think I'm d-d-dead. My m-m-mother. Be-c-c-c-cause I wasn't brave enough to… s-say goodbye. How can I pretend to be better now if I can't… at l-l-least do that?”

“Alright,” I smirked. “Let's call her! Tell her you've got a hot girlfriend, and you don't care if she disapproves. Rub it right in her face, and hang up!”

Bill's funereal expression told me it was too old and deep a wound to joke about. I was such a child, shooting my mouth off again without thinking. Then, his expression stirred and changed. He quirked an eyebrow, as if he'd never realized the humor in it before.

“It ought to be that easy…” he murmured. He let go my hand at last, and slung his arm around my shoulder, as if just then noticing that I _was_ his girlfriend. It was about as intimate a gesture as two friends posing for a photograph, but it set my chest ablaze again all the same, throbbing warmth spreading lower as it burned.

I was lost in Bill's sunshine — spellbound in the rolling hills of muscle and the little white scars of his rarely-exposed arms, and the familiar engine smell that always hung around him. He could rebound so quickly, and no matter how heavy grief weighed on him, he always managed to be kind.

The urge to touch him more overwhelmed me. I cupped his cheek, tipping his head toward mine, and melted against his smile. His lips were taut at first, stretched nervously over his teeth, and the hand he had left draped around me went stiff enough that it hovered above where it had previously touched. _Don't pull away this time_ , I silently begged. After the span of a few heartbeats that felt like the ticking of the hour hand, he softened, and leaned into my advance. He cradled my back, pulling me tight to the warm cage of his chest.

In that moment, I returned to the first time he held me, just as tenderly, trying to keep me from slipping into a coma. Deep in his arms, heated in his radiant warmth, I felt safe. Bill would never hurt me, and he would never let anything hurt me. It was the first time I knew that about anybody.

He captured my lower lip between his, nibbling it gently between his teeth. A warm shiver ran down my spine. Instinctively, I ran my hand down the front of his pants. Air hissed between his teeth, and his kiss turned clunky and awkward.

_Shit._ He pulled back. _Shit, shit, shit._ I moved too fast. He had been so close to sending me home tonight. It had taken all my effort to convince him to be with me. I couldn't let him change his mind again, and put me in my car. If we stopped now, there was nothing but words between us. If he decided I was too young for him after all, we hadn't done anything that couldn't be taken back. Our relationship was flimsy as unbaked clay.

This was no time for mistakes. I needed to cement the deal. It was all or nothing.

“I… uh… ah…” he babbled, glancing down at where my hand remained over his pants zipper. I stretched off the bed, and clicked the bedroom light off. Long, dark shadows clung to the blankets.

I lifted the hem of my shirt, and began to pull it up, exposing first my abdomen, and my ribs. “Oh!” came a chaste cry of surprise. Before I could reveal my bra, Bill stammered, “Yuh… y-you d-d-don't have… have to—”

“I _want_ to.”

The shirt lifted over my head and was cast aside. Bill's eyes widened. Filling their blue depths was the same concern and dread of a father watching his daughter driving away with her prom date. That much I expected… but accompanying it for the first time, like a snake hiding in the garden, was a hunger. His seawater eyes, near-black in the shadows, swept across the undulations of my hip, drank in my bared skin, and paused over the thin lace of my bra. They snapped back to my face, and he blushed hot scarlet.

“It's okay to look,” I purred. “That's what they're there for, love.” His breath was hot and sweet when our lips met again, my tongue begging entry. His lips parted for me, and his hands began to rove across the soft swathes his eyes had sampled by moonlight. He had already held me around the waist, through clothing, but the effect of skin on skin sent shivers through me.

“Take your shirt off,” I suggested.

A choppy breath answered, like a gust off the sea.

“It's okay… I have mine off, too.” I bit my lip, and gazed back hopefully.

He looked down, considering himself with apprehension.Haltingly, he grabbed the back of his shirt collar, and pulled it forward over his head. The fabric slipped over him, exposing a swath of curls down the center of his chest, fading from brown to grey. His abdomen was just slightly rounded — not fat, but not the chiseled washboard of the football players I used to date. Somehow, his less-defined body was more appealing. I had seen plenty of narcissistic schoolboys, and found nothing sensual about rock-hard skin, stretched taut as plastic over rock-hard muscles. His touchable, yielding body was far more fair. My hands flew to greet his chest, feeling the coarse hairs slip under my fingers, and the furious drumming of his heart.

Tossing the shirt aside, his hands found my hips again, caressing and exploring further as he dared, while I drew myself close to nibble at his neck. A helpless, yearning noise rumbled deep in his throat. His fingertips traced down the ridge of my spine until they slipped under the hem of my pants. I gasped — I hadn't expected him to be so bold so quickly. Neither had he. He realized by my reaction how low his fingers had dipped, and quickly retracted them to safer shores.

“S-s-sorry,” he gulped, mortified at his body's lewd behavior.

I gave a gentle whine in protest, and stuffed his hand back down where it had come from.

“Oh.”

A dopey smile spread across his lips, but I didn't give him much time to enjoy this newly-discovered frontier before leading him across another boundary. I unzipped my pants. For a split second, I couldn't remember if I'd worn cute underwear. The tiny pang of fear subsided as I shimmied out of my jeans, and they parted over strawberry-print panties with white lace. They didn't match my bra, but it would suffice.

The confident grin was gone. Bill's mouth opened and closed as he tried to protest but found no words to cooperate.

I draped my now-free legs around him, straddling his lap. His breath heaved, and I let my hands wander down his chest, feeling it shudder and tremble. His arms circled the small of my back, pulling my hips flush against his. A breathy sound of pleasure escaped me. I could feel him grow through his pants, and began to rock, grinding against the bulge until my underwear soaked through with my anticipation.

“Would you take off my bra?” I whispered into his ear.

“A… ah… a-a-ar-are you, you, you shhh sure?”

I answered with a kiss, and he kissed me back with the ferocity of a starved animal.

His trembling hands fumbled with the clasp, pinching and squeezing at it like he'd never taken a bra off before — which, perhaps he hadn't. After more futile snapping at the elastic, he swore under his breath and began stammering something too shaken to quite be words, but carried the tone of defeat.

“Stupid strap,” I muttered, “It's so impossible,” and twisted to give him full view of my back. Aided by the easier angle, he managed at last to unhook it. The freed straps hung loose, no longer bearing weight, and slid down each arm. Bill's breathing hitched, and my heart filled with captured fluttering birds. His shyness was infectious. I had never been nervous at this part before.

I let bra drop onto the mattress, and turned back to face him with my small but rounded breasts exposed. His eyes pulled magnetically to the white flash of skin, and as their focus traced circles of pink, his tongue darted unconsciously between his lips. Blood rushed beneath my skin, feeling his gaze like fingertips. I pressed my hips forward against him again, where his erection had grown and struggled against the restraint of his pants. His eyes closed as he tried, and failed, to contain a pleasured groan. Instead of reaching for my chest, he combed through my hair, lingering to twist a strand between his fingers, and brush my cheek with his thumb. He looked at me with those familiar blue eyes. All the empty places of loneliness now flooded with adoration, as if I were the sun and the air, made human for him.

My hands dropped to his belt, and worked to unclasp it.

“M-m-michelle… you don't h-have to…” he protested, though the swell between his legs throbbed against fabric, lacking its owner's considerate restraint.

“Please…” I begged, my voice reduced to a suggestive whimper. For weeks I had longed for him, wondering whether he saw me as a woman or a child. Our relationship, as it stood, felt paper-thin and ready to blow away at the slightest breeze. I needed to make this real.

He gave in.

Letting his instincts take over, his motions became more fluid as he moved my hips off his lap, and helped my inexperienced hands undo his belt. He stood, and closed the bedroom door, even though we were alone in the apartment, and after a moment of fumbling and hasty tugging at the worn denim, his long shaft was liberated of its constraints. I quickly escaped my final garments. Suddenly, we were two nude bodies. No cheerleader. No mechanic. No costumes, or parts to play.

His face was flushed, filled with every emotion at once, as his building desire battled lingering anxiety. The former won out, inevitably launched to victory by a legion of hormones and primal needs that had gone too long unsatisfied. I lay back on the bed, and spread my legs beneath him. His bulbous pink head rubbed the length of my folds, sending electric vibrations coursing through my body. My fingers dug into the bedding. My heart was racing like it was my first time, and I realized that it _was._ The first grown man, and the first man I cared about. He hovered above me, uncombed hair hanging down like billowing ash, his muscled arms the trunks of two slender trees on either side of me. He paused at my opening, a final hesitation. I slipped a hand between us, grasping at his hardness, and angled it just right. Then I angled my own hips to meet it, and thrust up, engulfing him. His chest heaved, and I gave a satiated moan as he filled me.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Body taking over, he thrust into me, rhythmic, and hard. With each thrust a squealing cry burst from my lips, as the friction between us, the feeling of him, of Bill, _my Bill,_ became too much to hold silently inside. He was finally mine. His voice was soft, nearly a sob. More than nearly. His whole body wracked in tremors, and his reddened face exploded in a mournful wail. The thrusting stopped, and he just… shook. His face contorted in emotion, squeezing out hot tears onto my chest.

“What's wrong?” My thoughts raced. _I screwed up. He wants to send me home._

“S-s-s-s-sorry… I-I-I-I'm s-s-sorry…” His mouth worked, jaw muscles flexing and moving with the strain.

“Don't… it's my fault.” My eyes stung with the threat of tears as I spoke, but I held them in. He didn't need to see how much losing him devastated me. “I pushed you into it, and you regret it, and it's my fault for going too fast. I just wanted you to like me.”

“W-what? Of-of course I like you. I-I'm the one who… who can't…”

Then I felt it. A dripping, sticky wetness between my legs. We hadn't been at it for a minute yet, I didn't even consider — oh!

I wrapped my legs around his hips, and arms around his shoulders and drew him down until his weight crushed on top of me, and I could bury my face in his sweaty neck. “Oh honey, it's okay,” I purred, relieved. “Is that all? I was… afraid you changed your mind about me…”

His breath was hard in my ear, and he trembled in my arms for a long time before it finally slowed a little, and he answered. “I h-h-haven't ch-changed my m-mind. Understand if… _y-you_ do…”

“It's my fault for rushing you.”

“I should be able to handle it, I'm a grown man. I-I-I don't know wh-why I'm crying…” He tried to laugh at himself, but his voice only cracked and wavered. “W-wh-what're you doing with such a basket-case?”

“It's okay. Lots of people just cry after sex because, like, hormones, or stress or something?” I smiled into his tangled mop of hair. “Anyway, you're _my_ basket-case.”

His arms closed around me like they might never let me go. Stroking his back, I smoothed over taut, knotted muscles, while my other hand idly toyed with his long hair.

“I-I-I'm s-sorry… You di-di-didn't get a ch-chance to… to, uh…” He struggled to find the genteel word for orgasm, and I couldn't help but giggle.

“Don't worry, it's not my first quickie. You'll have plenty of time to work on endurance,” I promised lasciviously. Honestly? I had never finished during sex before. No one had ever really cared. “This was actually nice,” I admitted.

He snorted into the pillow and his shoulders jumped. Then he propped himself on his elbows to get a good look at me while shaking his head with a tear-streaked, lopsided smile. “You don't have to _lie_.”

“I'm not! I mean, I was surprised how fast that was, but…” I wouldn't humiliate him by confessing his vulnerability was cute. “I've wanted to be with you for so long. It felt amazing, because it was with you. You're all I care about right now.”

“You… you really do f-feel that way about me,” he marveled, not quite a question but not a statement either.

I stretched up and kissed him again, then let my head fall back to the pillow. I watched under my eyelashes as his face turned pink, and his lips twitched up into an awkward smile. He wiped the remaining tears away with the heel of his palm.

The next bit was unglamorous, as he finally pulled out, half-flaccid, and we clamored to clean up. Then we were back in bed, snuggled together for the night. All I could hear was his breath in the dark; all I could smell was his skin, damp and earthy with effort. All I could feel was his hand stroking my face as delicately as if I were a dream spun from starlight, that could shatter with one false move. He looked at me like I was his entire universe, and at that moment I knew he was mine.

He was old, and strange, and unfashionable — the opposite of everything I usually sought. And yet I loved him more than any man I'd ever met.

He let out a long, shaking sigh and sank down over me like a blanket, wrapping me in his arms. “ _MMMMichelle_ ,” he moaned into my neck. His jaw worked to form words, and his whole body seemed to wind like a clockwork machine toward the same purpose, each cog and gear snapping carefully into place, rediscovering old pathways and finding they still worked in spite of damage and years of disuse. Steadily the pressure built, coiling like a spring, until at last with a shuddered breath he exhumed the low-spoken words, “I love you, too.”

And like that, the last of my guard fell crumbling down. Any vision of life without my stuttering gas station attendant was gone.

 


End file.
